


Haydn in Plain Sight

by dylanssourwolf



Series: The PlayLiszt [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, Alternate Universe - Pianist, Alternate Universe - Student/Teacher, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angry Derek Hale, Barebacking, Begging, Bottom Derek Hale, Bottom Derek Hale/Top Stiles Stilinski, Cocky Stiles Stilinski, College Student Stiles Stilinski, Composer Derek Hale, Dirty Talk, Dirty Thoughts, Eternal Sterek, Finger Sucking, Gay Sex, Hand & Finger Kink, Human Derek Hale, M/M, Musician Derek Hale, Musician Stiles Stilinski, Mutual Pining, Nerd Derek Hale, Not Beta Read, POV Stiles Stilinski, Pianist Stiles Stilinski, Pining Derek Hale, Pining Stiles Stilinski, Playlist, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Professor Derek Hale, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Secret Identity, Slow Build Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Stiles Stilinski is a Little Shit, Stiles Stilinski is a Tease, Stiles Stilinski's Name is Mieczysław, Stiles-centric, Top Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2020-11-15 03:29:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20859497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dylanssourwolf/pseuds/dylanssourwolf
Summary: Only five people in the world know that Stiles Stilinski, music major at USC, isactuallyworld-renowned piano prodigy Mieczysław. Discovered by accident via youtube video, Stiles has been hiding behind fingerless gloves for about four years in constant paranoia that someone's going to recognize him and it only got worse when he found out that the musicologist he's been studying andfawningover forever is an unabashed fan of his piano recordings.Has he been avoiding taking Derek's classes for three years now? Absolutely. But, despite taking a semester off, he can graduate with the rest of his class if he does an independent study to finish his credits...and Derek happens to have an opening. Is this the universe telling him to shoot his shot? For once, his heart outweighs the anxiety in his brain and he thinks maybe it could be.Stiles just has to besocareful, because Derek keeps looking at his hands like he knows something, like heknowssomething...and as much as Scott harps on him to just tell Derek, he can't do it.Not yet.SAME PLOT, NEW POV & MUSIC !!





	Haydn in Plain Sight

**Author's Note:**

> **PART TWO, Y'ALL!! No one asked for it, but I wrote it anyway. You can choose to read both, it is the same story, except this one is from Stiles's point of view!! (I didn't think I captured his secret life well enough, so I made a behind the scenes fic) so all of the dialogue is the same, but it has a new playlist to capture Stiles's personality / anxiety / ADHD and it has all of his background and his thoughts!**
> 
> _This fic is meant to be read with the playlist playing as background music, but is completely optional. All of the music on the playlist is mentioned in the story at the time it should be playing in the background, should you choose to tune in and out as you read. Enjoy!_
> 
>   
UPDATE: I haven't used 8tracks in a while and had no idea it doesn't stream everywhere anymore!! Here's a link to my playlist on [Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/user/1229760642/playlist/33qs2AbOkHHjNYoEHxeS2t?si=SuUMkOYTQ9uZbTW9cHnW5Q) also (it works best if you have premium so there's no ads and make sure it isn't on shuffle) and here's a list of everything on the playlist if that helps as well!
> 
> 01\. _Well-Tempered Clavier Book 1: Prelude No.1 In C Major_ | **J. S. Bach**  
02\. _12 Etudes, Op.25: No.6 In G-Sharp Minor_ | **Frédéric Chopin**  
03\. _Rêverie, L. 68: Rêverie_ | **Claude Debussy**  
04\. _Les Baricades Mistérieuses (6e ordre)_ | **François Couperin**  
05\. _Gnossiennes: No. 1 - Lent_ | **Erik Satie**  
06\. _Solfeggio In C Minor, Wq. 117/2, H. 220_ | **C.P.E. Bach**  
07\. _Prelude In A Minor, M. 65_ | **Maurice Ravel**  
08\. _3 Gymnopediés: No. 1_ | **Erik Satie**  
09\. _Nocturnes: No. 2 in E-flat major_ | **Frédéric Chopin**  
10\. _Fêtes_ | **Claude Debussy**  
11\. _Three Ghost Rags: No. 1. The Graceful Ghost_ | **William Bolcom**  
12\. _Af hreinu hjarta_ | **Atli Heimar Sveinsson**  
13\. _15 Preludes: XIII. Andante cantabile_ | **Nino Rota**  
14\. _Nordlandsbilleder Suite No. 1, Op.5: IV. Mot Fedrenes Fjell_ | **David Monrad Johansen**  
15\. _3 Romances Argentinos: I. Las niñas de Santa Fe _ | **Carlos Guastavino**  
16\. _Etude In A Flat Op. 1: No. 2_ | **Paul de Schlözer**  
17\. _Apanhei-te Cavaquinho_ | **Ernesto Nazareth**  
18\. _The Departure_ | **Max Richter**  
19\. _Requiem: IV. Pie Jesu (arr. for piano)_ | **Gabriel Faurè**  
20\. _12 Etudes, Op. 10: Etude No. 4 In C-Sharp Minor_ | **Frédéric Chopin**  
21\. _Berlioz Symphonie Fantastique: IV. Marche au supplice_ | **Franz Liszt**  
22\. _Romances Sans Paroles, Op. 76: I. Souvenance_ | **Cécile Chaminade**  
23\. _Danzón No. 2 (transcr. for piano solo)_ | **Arturo Márquez**  
24\. _Carnaval, Op. 9: No. 5. Eusebius_ | **Robert Schumann**  
25\. _Préludes, Book 1, L. 117 VIII. La fille aux cheveux de lin_ | **Claude Debussy**

(if it doesn't play when you click it, just click pause and play again) 

“You’re serious? This is mine?”

A shiny, polished ebony lid glistens underneath a full red bow where it’s propped open. There are a few scratches that can’t be buffed out and some nicks in the legs where it’s been knocked into, but when Stiles presses C8, it rings warm and loud through the living room as if it’s come straight from the Yamaha factory. He resists the urge to throw himself into a piece and instead wraps his arms around his beaming father.

“I figure if you’re planning on studying music, I should get you something to practice on. You already have lacrosse after school so there’s no point in making you stay later to use the band room to practice for auditions.” The sheriff smiles and lets his son go. “You’re going to play something on it, aren’t you?”

Stiles nearly trips trying to get his books out of the piano bench, the wood groaning softly when it opens. His amber eyes scan over Debussy Preludes, Bach’s _Well-Tempered Clavier_, various loose scores, _Outspoken Essays on Music _by Camille Saint-Saëns…? “Did you put this in here?” He hands it to his father, who examines it and shakes his head.

“No, I just put in whatever books you had laying around. It’s not yours?” He returns it to Stiles’s outstretched hand and the boy studies the contents and foreword by a Dr. Derek S. Hale.

“Nope,” Stiles says, intrigued, “I think the previous owner maybe left it.” The book is translated from French and the boy nearly forgets what he’s doing from skimming the first few pages, but he’s interested suddenly in the foreword and sets the book aside for later. His fingers grip a soft paperback and he tugs out some Liszt and Bach. “I’ll play some preludes before I go to work on this Paganini.”

That night, he adds Harvard, Princeton, and University of Southern California to his application list before he falls asleep with _Outspoken Essays on Music_ splayed open in his lap, right in the middle of Dr. Hale’s introduction.

———

Stiles is stressed. He’s been sitting at the keyboard for two hours trying to de-stress, but somehow, the one thing that’s always helped him relax is seeming to work him up even more. Taking a gap semester was supposed to make time for him to calm down and give his head a much-needed break from trying to balance school work and practice and concerts and album recordings, and while he loves being able to tour the country and play the greatest hits of Mozart and Haydn, all he wants to do is go back to school.

Posting an audition tape on YouTube was probably one of his finer ideas, considering it was how young musicians like himself got discovered. After his father bought him the Yamaha baby grand, Stiles had spent hours in front of those keys practicing and practicing the hardest pieces he had in his collection to make sure he got into the best music programs in the country in hopes that one day, he’d be one of the finest concert pianists out there.

It wasn’t a dream he’d had at first, more of his mother’s dream. Claudia was self-taught, and Stiles had always had that connection with his mother because all he listened to as a child was the classical stylings of J.S. Bach and Mozart. She’d brought a four-year old Stiles with her to find more records of Baroque and Romantic music and off he went, into the piano section of the music store, sounding out Bach’s Prelude in C Major from the Well-Tempered Clavier and she couldn’t bring herself to stop him, because there he was playing from memory as if he’d played his whole life. And so Claudia decided to teach him properly via the small portable keyboard collecting dust in the garage. One of the things they’d always had was that musical connection, from the beginning of her diagnosis, through the rough times in the middle, and even at the bitter end. She may have forgotten he was her son, but she never forgot how to play, and she always remembered his name after the first three chords of that Bach prelude.

He stopped playing the day she died.

It took three years for him to listen to Bach again. An eleven-year old Stiles knocked over a box in the garage trying to reach a box of cold case files his father brought home. A crate of records tumbled onto the floor and he stopped, soft brown eyes filled with tears, but he picked up the records and his father found him in the living room when he came home from work, asleep in the couch with the portable keyboard in his lap.

It took six more years for him to post a video on the internet with a shitty old video camera, the intention solely to be a reference for job applications and academy auditions, and the frame was so small he couldn’t even fit his face in it. He figured his hands would be enough, as long as he put his name in the credits and put it on private. He’d rehearsed Chopin’s _Etude no. 6 in G-Sharp minor_ for _months_ and the video sounded incredible on the first take, so he and Scott posted it, put it on private, and that was it, right?

_Wrong_.

The video was public. It ended up featured on the homepage and gained thousands of views overnight. Comments were complimenting his artistry, calling him a prodigy on the instrument, and he didn’t know what to do. Hundreds of people were subscribing and requesting songs, begging for recordings on iTunes, and so he gave the people what they wanted and kept recording videos under the name Mieczysław. His first gig offer came through a direct message on YouTube, from Sony, for a private company gala, which then turned into a record deal from Sony Classical because the patrons couldn’t stop raving about how great the kid pianist was. He recorded CDs between lacrosse games and college auditions and the only condition he gave the producers was no facetime. Stiles wanted to stay anonymous, at least until he got through college, and if he only had to wear gloves all the time to do that, it’d be ten times better than being treated differently because he’s talented.

Stiles spent a weekend in Los Angeles for his audition at USC and got the chance to sit in on a guest lecture for a musicology candidate applying for a residence in the Thornton School of Music. He found his way, bouncing excitedly, eyes wide, three rows away from the podium where a man in his early twenties is presenting his doctoral dissertation on the stylistic impressions of Debussy and Ravel. His eyes are the most stunning shade of green that Stiles has ever seen, and his chiseled jawline clenches every time he pauses between thoughts and his arms flex where they’re crossed over his chest and Stiles is sure he’s dreaming when the man shows a YouTube video and Stiles watches his own hands play Debussy’s _Rêverie_. He’s so intrigued listening to the guy talk about the artistry and musicianship of the pianist and how it relates to the meaning of the music, and Stiles is beaming from his seat like a puppy with the biggest heart eyes anyone could have, so he has to drink some water to prevent himself from looking like all the moms in the audience that are fondly eyeing the presenter to keep the attention off of himself.

The last slide shows the name of the candidate as _Dr. Derek S. Hale_ and everyone stares at Stiles when he starts choking on his water.

——— 

_“Please, Stiles? I really need your help and I know you’re on your way here.”_

It doesn’t matter that Stiles has the phone so far away from his ear, Scott’s whining pierces through the speaker and it’s making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. “I just drove into LA and I haven’t even gotten to freakin’ eat yet. Can I at least—”

_“We have pizza and beer and some of the finest scores of classical music. It’s like practice for you so you can be at the top of your game for that meeting with Silver Linings tomorrow.” _Scott sighs on the line and Stiles hears Kira yelling something in the background. “_Oh, we have curly fries, too.”_

“I’ll be there in ten.”

Stiles hates admitting when Scott’s right, so he doesn’t, he just entertains him and Kira by playing through all the music they need to know for their history exam while they call out the pieces like some sort of live-action flash card study session. He’s grateful for the practice and for the calming energy that sight-reading brings him, because he’s become unusually nervous for the meeting he has in the morning.

Stiles pulls the New York Times crossword out of his jacket pocket when he steps into the elevator and presses the button for the lobby. 

_The blank Song (Lákme aria), seven down._

He feels his phone buzz against his thigh and he fishes it out of his pocket with an eyeroll at the caller ID. “What?”

_“How’d it go?”_

Stiles tucks the phone into his shoulder and writes _bell_ in the small boxes of the newspaper. “Great, actually. They want me to be a part of a benefit concert in May to raise money for instrument restoration for schools that need music. There were about twenty other musicians there and I’m pretty sure I was one of about three pianists? Chris kept it really lowkey, so no one knows who I am.”

Scott makes an impressed noise on the other end. _“Wow, congrats, dude. Sounds like a sweet gig. What are you playing?”_

“As a matter of fact, I recommended a few local composers and scholars.”

_“Oh, cool. What did y—Stiles, you didn’t.”_

“They’re going to ask him once they finalize everything. I—”

Scott sighs. _“Why don’t you just introduce yourself to him? Take one of his classes, maybe? This is a little bit much, don’t you—”_

“Absolutely not,” Stiles retorts, turning out of the Disney Concert Hall and down the street. He passes a bookstore with _Outspoken Essays on Music_ displayed in the window and he takes it as a sign that he made a good decision. “I just think a brilliant musicologist that is so passionate about music should be recognized is all. He has a bachelor’s degree in composition, you know.” _Che gelida blank, twenty-two down. _He walks around the corner and slides through the doors of his favorite coffee shop in LA, spotting Isaac behind the counter and giving him a thumbs up when he mouths, _“The usual?”_

_“You’ve been fawning over Derek for five years, Stiles. Just talk to him.”_

Stiles shoves the newspaper in his jacket pocket while he scans the shop for a seat and his heart leaps into his throat when he spots a black leather jacket sitting at the bar. “Oh my god, he’s here. And he’s drinking a cold brew. A man after my own heart.” He can feel his chest pounding with nerves but nevertheless, he takes a seat at the bar next to Derek, who’s struggling with a lesson plan and a New York Times crossword. Stiles shrugs out of his red hoodie and drapes it over the back of the chair, “Right next to me, Scott. With a coffee.”

_“Where are you? We’ll meet you.”_

“I’ve entertained you and Kira for the entirety of last night, the least you can do is let me entertain myself for the fucking morning,” he shoots back, glancing to his right to catch annoyance in bright jade eyes.

Scott scoffs on the phone and asks, _“At least bring me a coffee? Is it the place where Isaac works?”_

“No, I will not bring you coffee and _no_, I will not tell you where I am. Scott, I—”

_“Tell Isaac I said hi and—”_

_“_No, I don’t—”

_“Stiles, come on! You—”_

“For _fuck’s sake_, go bother your girlfriend.” And pressing the end call button isn’t nearly as satisfying as it would be flipping a phone shut. He pulls the crossword out of his pocket and fills _manina_ in for twenty-two down, his fingers tapping the melody out on the countertop until Isaac slides a cold brew into his fingers. There’s a soft scratching noise and Stiles glances right again to see Derek’s green eyes trained on his gloved hands and his pen circling the clue for seven down on the crossword.

“The answer is bell. To seven down,” Stiles mutters, pointing at the newspaper, and it seems to snap Derek out of whatever zone his mind was wandering in. He lifts his head and Stiles can feel his mouth watering at the sight of the man he’s been obsessed with for so long, his face covered in a soft shade of shadowy stubble, with bushy brows brooding over the gorgeous green eyes that sucked him into going to USC over Yale and Princeton. He tries so hard to keep a straight face until Derek grumbles some semblance of thanks before he scrawls it in the puzzle, and Stiles doesn’t look at his phone when it buzzes because he knows it’s Scott and he can’t take his eyes off of how stunning Derek is this close. If he didn’t know better, he’d think the professor studied his face just as long when he glared up at him, and then his phone buzzes again and Derek’s eyes tear away from his face in distraction.

“You should get that.”

“I’d rather talk to you,” Stiles blurts out before he can stop himself, and _shit, Stiles, shut up_, and his anxiety kicks in and he doesn’t know how to dig himself out of the grave he’s thrust himself into until he continues with, “considering you’ve looked like you want to rip my throat out since I sat down. What gives?”

Stiles’s fingers wrap around the cold brew in front of him and he swigs until Derek mutters, “It was quiet,” right into the newspaper. He can hear the blood rushing through his ears and it’s _exhilarating_ when the man leans away from him and feigns work by waking up his laptop. “I’m busy.”

_Don’t fuck this up, _he tells himself, because he knows he’s got a toe in the door and all he wants is to keep the conversation going without freaking out. He slides his bar stool closer and reads over his shoulder and notices the lesson plan for Scott’s eight am half-written full of notes on Debussy and he smirks. “You’re a music professor? My best friend is a music major. I thought being a good friend meant playing through a bunch of classical piano music that he has to know by memory for a test at the end of the week for the entirety of an evening but apparently that isn’t enough for him. He’s been harassing me all morning.” His phone buzzes again against the counter and he slides it into his pocket.

“You _do_ know there’s something called _personal space_ and right now, you’re about three feet too far into mine,” Derek snaps back, trying to be uninterested, clearly trying to glare Stiles away, but he’s not that easily deterred.

The boy swirls his tongue around the straw of his cold brew and cranes his head to keep reading the laptop screen where Derek’s moved it across the counter. “I guess I would understand his struggle if I were also in the class. I just need these few hours of java and crosswords before his head is back up my ass again.”

“Is that why your head is up mine?”

Stiles can’t help but laugh because he _knows_ he’s annoying—he blames the ADHD—but he also knows he’s _charming_, and as much as he’s irritating Derek, there’s an eyebrow twitch he’s picked up on in every lecture he’s been to that the musicologist does when he’s interested in something. It’s a tell, and Stiles noticed it at the first lecture of Derek’s dissertation, and at every lecture since—all eight he’s been to, to be exact—and then he sees the twitch when Derek’s scowling at him. Stiles leans back and sips his coffee again. “Is that the reason you haven’t left yet?”

Derek turns back to his lesson plan and Stiles tries not to smirk. He _knows_ he’s won. “What do you want? I’m busy.”

“Yeah, you already said that,” Stiles replies, leaning over again to draw his eyes over Derek’s leather-clad chest. “You’re probably _always_ working, aren’t you, _doctor_?” Derek’s eyes snap down to the ID badge he’s clearly forgotten to take off, much to Stiles’s advantage, and he continues with what he does best: a proposition. “Whaddaya say you help me out with this crossword and maybe stop looking like you’re figuring out the best way to murder me? You get a break from your fancy teaching job and I get a big ol’ overqualified brain to double check my answers before I write them in pen. C’mon, doc.”

He starts tapping his pencil again on the counter, waiting with bated breath, the anticipation making his knee bounce against the foot rest on the bar stool. It takes a second, but one angry jaw clench and shut laptop later, Derek’s in agreement. “_Don’t_ call me that.”

Stiles reaches out a svelte, gloved hand, “Well, I’m Stiles,” and Derek just examines those fingers a bit too long before he finally shakes it, and the boy lets out a breath he didn’t even realize he was holding. _He doesn’t know. That was close, but he doesn’t know. _“And I call you…?”

“Derek.” He drops Stiles’s hand and turns back to his coffee when Stiles reaches over and takes Derek’s crossword.

“So, have you figured out eighteen across yet?”

———

Scott’s apartment hasn’t ever really been as appealing to Stiles as it is now. There’s an empty bedroom that used to be Isaac’s until he moved out to live in the same residence hall as Allison, and while he’s not thrilled with the idea of having four flat mates, he _is_ thrilled with the idea of Derek, and that’s nearly enough at the moment. He just has to get Liam to like him first, _then_ he’ll consider moving in.

“Come on, dude, it’s rent-free living here. Just utilities and groceries,” Scott pleads, “you can deal with four of us for one semester.” Stiles is laying on the couch and Scott’s throwing Cheetos at him from where he’s leaning against the kitchen counter. “We won’t yell at you for practicing piano either.”

The next Cheeto lands in his hair, so Stiles picks it out and eats it. He knows it’s a sweet deal, especially because Scott’s dad works more at FBI headquarters nowadays and never really uses the apartment. Living rent-free on a college budget is something he can get behind, and he just thanks his lucky stars that Rafael chose a large apartment by pure coincidence. “I don’t know. I’m not completely decided on coming back yet. Plus, your little IED living in in the room next to me?” He sits up to look at Scott. “He’s never liked me, and you know it.”

“Stiles, he—”

“I know my mouth gets me in trouble sometimes, but I won’t take any shit from him, you _know_ that.” Scott sighs and Stiles feels a little bad. They rarely see each other anymore and he can feel how much Scott’s trying to make this work. “I’ll think about it, alright?”

Scott nods and resigns. They reside in comfortable silence for a moment with the exception of Scott’s chewing and the rushing of traffic outside the window, and Stiles lets his mind wander. What’s he going to do? He’s bored at home and is _itching_ to throw himself into schoolwork and research and music for his own pleasure, rather than for the pleasure of others, but he hasn’t hit the point yet where he’s completely convinced that this is the perfect time for him to come back, especially with the upcoming demands of the benefit concert looming overhead. He just needs some sort of sign.

Scott’s voice tears him from his thoughts when it rings through the silence. “Does he know?”

“What?”

“Derek,” he clarifies, hopeful eyes searching Stiles’s face for some sort of confirmation. “You guys had a fun little date today, yeah? Did you tell him?”

Stiles shakes his head and his best friend sighs again. “I couldn’t tell him. I got too into it and started doing that dumb thing when I ask too many questions and I think it freaked him out a little bit once he figured out that I knew who he was all along and—” He stops and breathes in an attempt to slow his racing thoughts. “I think he almost made me.”

“I thought you were being careful.”

“I _am_,” Stiles snaps back, “but I could just be paranoid, I don’t know. I offered a handshake and he just stared down at it for a little too long for my comfort before he shook it. I’m probably just paranoid.” He shakes his head and stands to lean on the counter across from Scott. “I know you think I should just tell him, but I can’t, Scott. He _can’t_ know, _no one_ can. Not yet.”

The door swings open and Mason walks through with and irritable Liam in tow, and Stiles swears he can feel his blood pressure skyrocket. Scott just smiles through a mouthful of Cheetos and greets them. “How was class?” Mason starts shaking his head and Scott, impervious to social cues continues, “How’s your paper coming?”

“I’m dropping his class. I’m not ready for the test, I’ll never _be_ ready for the test, and the paper isn’t coming along at all because I have no _fucking_ topic, and I _hate_ history!” Liam’s screaming at the top of his lungs and Mason’s arms come up to wrap around his best friend.

“But we’re going to _calmly_ breathe so we don’t destroy the apartment,” he offers, encouraging the sophomore to relax. He gives an apologetic look to Stiles, who honestly _can’t_ _believe_ that worked, because just like that, Liam’s calm, still irritated, but calm.

Liam’s piercing blue eyes shoot over to Stiles, scanning over his anxious expression before they drop to the floor. “Stiles.”

“Liam,” he replies, with gears suddenly turning in his head that he’s not sure likes. “What if I help you? We’ll study some while I’m here for the night, and then if you’re still set on dropping the class, you can’t say you didn’t try.”

Stiles’s fingers are anxiously drumming on his leg because he knows it means his secret gets revealed to one more person than he’s comfortable with. He glances to Scott and Mason, who are watching the interaction from behind the kitchen counter and Stiles honestly should’ve made his offer from behind it in case the entire thing blows up in his face. His arm reaches over the bar to take a Cheeto from Scott’s hand and eat it before Liam sighs. “Fine,” he resigns, “but I have lacrosse in a half an hour. We’ll do it later.” He grabs his bag of gear and follows Mason back out the front door just as quickly as they’d come in.

“Do we know what pieces he has to know?” Stiles cracks his knuckles as Scott opens the fridge to swig from the milk container. “Okay, if I’m going to even _consider_ living here, you gotta stop doing that.”

An hour later, Stiles finds himself hovering outside of the registrar’s office.

He got the list of music that Liam needs to know in an email from Mason, and in playing through it, he had a revelation—a _Rave_l-ation, if you will. Stiles rarely lets his mind wander, especially in practice when he can finally seem to channel all of his hyperactivity into letting his fingers dance over the keys, but his brain couldn’t seem to settle in sight-reading the Gounod and Offenbach.

Stiles knew he should go back home. His body was prepared for the drive, and yet, he couldn’t stop thinking about _Derek._ Sitting at the piano in Scott’s apartment, tinkling through piece after piece, he saw those flawless jade eyes dancing across his sightline. Their conversation about the French art song style in selected songs by Charles Ives makes his heart flutter almost as much as listening to Derek explain his theory on collaborative composition of impressionist—er, _symbolist_—music by 19th century French composers over their morning crossword and then Stiles feels his fingers stop playing. He leans forward to examine why and the two-seven chord with the tremolo underneath is fine, the sixteenth note triplets are okay, and it’s not that he can’t play the piece, he’s just never seen it or played it before. But Stiles is _sure_ he’s heard it somewhere.

It’s Ravel. Derek analyzed it in his doctoral dissertation presentation that Stiles had the pleasure of listening to four years ago. He takes it as a sign and drives to the registrar to re-enroll. The woman at the desk offers Stiles a few classes to sit in on to get a feel for the musicology major he’s decided to add alongside piano performance, and he opts for the French music course Derek is teaching at eight the next morning and decides to wander by one of the 100 levels on his way off campus tonight, just so he doesn’t look _too_ biased. He gets a photo snapped, a new ID printed, and begs his father to ship him a box of clothes so he doesn’t have to drive back so soon.

———

“Should I just stay after class and ask all my questions?” Stiles asks as soon as he walks through the classroom door. The only one in the room is Derek, albeit the class starts in two minutes. Stiles knows he should’ve waited for Scott, but he got up entirely too early because he couldn’t sleep in anticipation of seeing Derek again. He’s just lucky to have had coffee before this class.

“Sure,” Derek replies, meeting Stiles’s cheeky smile with his usual scowl, adjusting his shirt collar and carefully logging into the computer, “I’m free for about an hour after this class for lunch if you’d be okay with a lunch meeting. I’d be happy to fill you in and answer all questions.”

Stiles bobs his head in agreement and chooses a seat in the front row—gotta get a good close up view of Derek in his element—and he sheds his coat, static clinging to his red flannel and thermal shirt underneath, hands tucked modestly in the thumbhole sleeves. “Sounds solid, doc. Wait—what do I call you? Do you do the whole formal _Dr. Hale _thing or are you a _Professor Hale_ kind of guy?”

He doesn’t miss the way Derek swallows, and Stiles can’t tell if he’s interested or if it’s just making the older wildly uncomfortable when he hides most of his body behind the rolling desk at the front of the room as students start to file in lazily. “Anything is fine, really. Most of them call me Dr. Hale, but just Derek is fine, too.”

Stiles narrows his eyes as Derek averts his own back down to the computer screen, and he’s trying to figure out a way to gauge his emotions, but _damn,_ Derek’s good at masking them. “Well, okay, _Just Derek_. I—”

“Stiles!” Scott wraps Stiles in a hug and they laugh for a moment before sitting. “Why are you here? I don’t un—don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you’re here—but I don’t understand why you’re taking this class. I thought you—”

“I was convinced by a rather _persuasive_ scholar to sit in for a day, Scott,” he interrupts, and he shoots a wink at where Derek’s watching him, annoyed, from the opposite side of the room. Let’s hope he’s not as grumpy in a class as he is in a coffee shop.

Scott leans over. “What are you _doing_?” he whispers. “You told us you were leaving last night.”

“I may have lied about that,” Stiles replies, “I just—"

Derek clears his throat as the last few stragglers bolt through the door and he moves to close it behind them. “Okay, guys, any questions from the listenings or the Satie readings from last class? I know we didn’t get all the way through it, so I’m just covering my bases here.”

The entire class is silent.

“Are you too afraid to ask questions or do you not know what you don’t know?”

“That one,” Scott sheepishly replies, tapping his pen over the metal spiral of his notebook. “Could you do like, I don’t know, a quick recap or something?”

The class murmurs in agreement for a second and Derek shrugs, rolling up his sleeves. “Alright, but I’m not about to butcher _3 Gymnopédies: No. 1_ again for the sake of the group, unless one of _you_—” he pauses, and Stiles thinks Derek’s gaze lingers on him for a second, but _calm down, Stiles, he doesn’t know_, “would so _graciously_ volunteer to entertain us with your talent. The more time you take up, the less new information you have to learn today, and the less likely it is that we get to the Debussy analysis.”

The class collectively groans at the mention of another analysis, everyone starts clamoring and badgering each other, and then Scott is in the front jabbing a finger in Stiles’s right bicep. “Come _on_, you’re better than everyone else in this room and if I have to hear Dr. Hale play it again, I think my brain might explode and leak out my ears.”

“I heard that,” Derek chides with a frown, and where the _hell_ did he even come from? Stiles stifles a giggle as Scott sinks down in his desk, cheeks flushing pink with embarrassment. “Not like I blame you, Scott.”

“I’ll do it,” Stiles says nonchalantly, folding the desk down and heading languidly over to the baby grand in front of the right side of the chalkboard. He watches Derek stride over in the best fitting pair of navy slacks he’s _ever_ seen with an old, yellowed book of piano music, which means it’s so worn the pages nearly flutter out of the spine when Stiles opens it. “Jesus, ever heard of spiral binding? I’m terrified if I open this book all the way it’s going to turn to dust.”

Derek gives him a side eye and Stiles just beams back, setting the book up on the rack over the keyboard. The jade eyes are watching him, and he’s taking in Derek’s sharp profile and his clean-shaven face, and the way his biceps are so lovingly hugged by the light fabric of his button down and he catches Scott glaring at him in his peripherals and _shit, was he staring?_

“What?” Derek clips, head snapping to the voice in the back of the room. Stiles lightly raps the keys to get his fingers used to the chords, his eyes flitting up to the class and back down to the piano.

“Page number, in the anthology. Is it in there?” It’s Jackson.

Derek shakes his head and matches the attitude on Jackson’s face with one of his own, and he’s clenching his jaw and _wow, _Stiles needs to stop looking. “It was the analysis you did for today, unless you _didn’t_ do it.” Jackson’s superiority complex dissipates when Derek stares daggers right through it. “Hope I don’t collect it. Stiles, whenever you’re ready.”

He’s suddenly hit with a wave of nervousness, probably because Derek’s intently watching him, and he really shouldn’t have volunteered because what if Derek recognizes his playing? He’s never recorded Satie before, but a scholar like Derek? He _definitely_ can draw connections. Stiles takes a few deep breaths. “I’m a little rusty and I’ve never actually played this before, so I’ll do my best.” He wiggles his hands in his sleeves, still looped through the thumbholes in his shirt, and once he starts playing, the room goes silent.

The piece isn’t difficult, not for him at least, and the chords gracefully fit into the span of his hands. The wispy melody floats over the in a flowing waltz and Stiles remembers why he loves Satie so much, a smile gracing his lips as he entrances the whole class. It feels dreamy almost, and he’s concentrated on the staves in the music so much that his tongue finds its way perched on his bottom lip, making sure to keep a steady tempo _Lent et douloureux_, slow and painful. He knows exactly what his hands are doing, exactly where the keys are that he barely has to flick his gaze downward to look at his hands, and he just lets them go and shape the music as expressively as he knows how.

When he ends on the d minor chord, he lets it ring in the damper pedal, casting his eyes upward to see Derek, completely lost in thought, gazing right at him with the most blissful expression wiped over his features. Someone whispers, “wow,” and the class applauds, seeming to snap the professor out of whatever trance he was in and Stiles hasn’t taken his eyes off of Derek, who catches his gaze intensely for a moment before he sheepishly looks away. Stiles smirks and shuts the score on the piano, offering it up to Derek with a pink blush heating up the back of his neck.

“Nice job,” Derek smiles and Stiles can feel his heart leap in his chest, his lips curling up into a lopsided simper while he basks in the affirmation, and the view of Derek’s butt walking away. “Any observations?”

Ethan pipes up from the back corner. “That’s _definitely_ not the piece you played. It sounded completely different.”

“That’s because Stiles actually played it _well_,” Lydia adds.

"I’m fairly certain we’re all smart enough musicians to figure out that my doctorate is _not_ in piano performance and definitely does not qualify me to put on a premier concert for you. That’s above my pay grade.” Stiles laughs at that one and it gets the rest of the class going, and he catches Derek sneak another glance at him through his thick-framed glasses. “Now, intelligent observations?”

They take turns shouting out terms that they know, even if they don’t apply, and Derek’s categorizing them on the chalkboard into what should be ‘relevant’ and ‘irrelevant’, but he’s instead labeled them ‘Satie’ and ‘Maybe Satie’. Clearly the only people who understood the readings and lecture were Lydia, Danny, and Stiles, who’s somehow figured out a way to wiggle his thoughts right into the lecture as if he’s been in the class the whole semester. He’s supplying useful terms like _minimalist_ and _modernism_ and _avant-garde_ so that the whole side is full of applicable terms and while the three brightest are satisfied with themselves, the rest of the class looks more baffled than when they didn’t know anything. Derek sighs and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, shooting a look to tell Stiles to put his hand down.

“Okay, I guess we’re doing a recap lesson today. I’ll give you the Debussy to look over and listen to for class next Monday—because Kira’s running the theory and terms quiz on Friday— and then we’ll break it down together.” He runs a hand through his hair and Stiles makes sure he’s not subtle when Derek catches him licking his lips and letting his lidded eyes flutter down the professor’s body, from his glasses and clean-shaven cheeks, down to the two open buttons on his dress shirt, to his slim fit navy slacks and dark brown oxfords. A wolfish grin spreads across his face when he finds that he’s captured Derek’s attention once again, and the older just scowls in response. _Absolutely stunning, and still fucking grumpy._ “Jackson, it’s your lucky day. I’ll collect the Satie analysis on Monday. You’re getting a chance to fix any mistakes you’ve made. Now, let’s talk about Satie.”

——— 

“So, what exactly are you hoping to get out of this class?” Derek asks, taking a bite of his salad. “You’re clearly well-versed in Satie, so I’m sure you know just as much about the rest of the old dead guys we’re studying this semester.”

Stiles shrugs across the table and swirls a curly fry around his plate. “I don’t know, I—I really didn’t want to take the Madonna to Mahler class I sat in on yesterday. Like, Professor Parrish seems great and all, but I felt like a knew a little too much to be in a one-hundred level course,” he informs, finally eating the fry. “He’s definitely easy on the eyes, but I prefer mine more ‘staring daggers with an intent to kill’.” Stiles intentionally purrs the last part and tries not to snort when Derek chokes on his water, glaring those daggers he loves so much right through Stiles’s playful honey eyes. “I mean, I know some stuff but not enough,” he continues, a strange urge to impress Derek coming over him. “I research most of the pieces I play, so I’ve got a bit of headway on the rest of these guys.”

“Try a lot. They’ve all been required to take my music history crash courses and those aren’t easy either, but all the upper level history courses are covering the popular composers in an intense amount of detail that you don’t get in a crash course. You doing some studying on your own gives you a huge advantage.” Stiles just shrugs and fiddles with his thumbhole sleeves, trying so hard to keep his hands covered an identity secret before Derek resumes his train of thought, clearly still recovering from Stiles hitting on him. “Take today, for example, you were already familiar with Satie in his entirety.”

“The guy wrote a series called ‘Dessicated Embryos’ to make fun of Chopin, Puget, and Debussy with pieces named after fucking shrimp just because he thought they were delicious, so how can I not know about him? You can’t be friends with someone and then just, whip around and write ‘obligatory cadenza’ at the end with more than half a page of fortissimo F-major chords and arpeggios just like—" Stiles stops himself. Sometimes the ADHD makes him ramble because he can’t ever seem to have a clear thought, but when he does, he's gotta get it out in the open and then it keeps going until he stops or gets carried away with it and—_breathe_—when he looks up, he realizes Derek’s just glaring at him with pursed lips and a raised brow.

“You wanna try again and tell me why you really want to take my class?”

Stiles lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. _Confession time._ “Look, I’ve been going to your conferences and reading your articles since my dad bought me a real piano for my seventeenth birthday. The previous owner left some books in the bench and one of them was Outspoken Essays on Music by Camille Saint-Saëns, translated by you, with an introduction by you, and I’ve read it cover to cover more times than I can count. I just—” the thought is so joyful to him and so he just starts grinning brightly at the man across the table, a sparkle of admiration glistening in his eyes. “You’re one of the best there is and I’m just really fucking…intrigued, so I didn’t know what else to do except go straight to the source.” He’s scanning Derek’s face with a fiery intensity and a small smirk playing on his lips, because Derek’s eyes are darting back and forth between his mouth and his eyes and Stiles still can’t get a read on what it means.

“Intrigued by my ass, maybe.”

Stiles does this stupid drumming thing with his fingers when he’s anxious. He thinks up a song, or if he’s lucky, there’ll be one playing, and he just taps the music over the table top like he’s sitting at a keyboard. _Chopin’s Nocturne No.2 in E-Flat Major_ plays softly over the speakers in the campus café, and Derek’s focused in on his fingers, thrumming along where his hands pretend there’s a piano, chords spreading through his handspan like nothing. Stiles looks up to watch Derek with a soft genuine expression of fondness on his face and Derek doesn’t say anything, just stares back; he looks interested and pleasant, agreeable even, but still, the moment feels right, even with the faint rapping of the Stiles’s fingers. It’s strange, how bare he seems without a scowl etched deep into his lips or irritation lingering in the disapproving glare of his jade eyes, how easy the conversation feels when Derek isn’t being so secretive and shady.

“You know,” Derek starts, “if you’re really serious, you can apply for an independent study. I can sign off on it, be your advisor. It’s a great way to start researching and getting some recognition for your insights, especially as a pianist. There seems to be a ton of studies dissecting symphonies and concertos and operas, but no one really focuses on independent piano works.” He takes another bite of salad and keeps talking, despite the slack jaw Stiles is sporting. “You’d have full access to my resources, and I’ve got more bookshelves of literature at home that you can use as well. Plus, I’m probably one of the best resources in the library.”

There’s an opportunity for a joke and Stiles seizes it without hesitation. “You’re bringing me home already?”

Derek just hands Stiles a business card, complete with his school email, office number, and scribbled on the back is his personal phone number in red pen. “Go talk to the registrar. Normally, it’s only available for summer school unless you get special permission. Once you get the application, send me an email or something. I’ve got a few student meetings during my office hours today, so I can let you know a time I’m free and we can go over your topic idea and I’ll sign off on it.”

Stiles’s heart jerks at the approving look Derek gives him and he beams back. “Awesome.”

“Don’t fuck this up,” Derek warns, “My patience is a virtue.”

**To: 2095550911 (mobile)  
** **01/19/18 12:57 PM**

_It’s Stiles_  
_The lady at the registrar swooned when I said your name  
_ _I finished the application so lemme know when you’re free_

Stiles hovers in front of the music building nervously and then darts away from the door. The paper in his hand crinkles in his fingers and he stares at it, heart racing, mind whirring. Does he _really _want to do this? Nearly five months is a long time to spend with just Derek, and it’s a long time for him to keep his identity hidden from the one person he wants to tell the most. What happens if Derek figures it out? His phone buzzes in his hand and he ducks into the building and out of the chilly January air.

**From: 2095550911 (mobile)  
** **01/19/18 12:58 PM**

_If you come to my office now, you can have my next time slot  
_ _And I specifically remember mentioning an email, not a text message_

The paper crinkles again. Stiles sighs, reading over the application for the umpteenth time since he’d filled it out, a sudden wave of anxiety making him rethink his decision. Is he _really_ ready to do this? He’s wandering through the building, passing practice rooms and instrument lockers, until his feet carry him to the office he’s considered walking into more times than he can count.

“Hey, my door is always open if you have questions or need someone to talk to, alright? I’m not as scary as I look,” Derek says to someone as Stiles approaches the open office door. He very nearly runs into Liam, who’s walking out and, startled, lets out an “Oh, shit, sorry man” before he disappears down the hall.

Stiles pops his head into the doorway and is immediately greeted by Derek clattering away on his laptop with a shadow emerging on his formerly clean-shaven cheeks, his soft expression hardening into a glower when he looks up from the screen, green eyes scanning Stiles’s face. “You’re scarier than you look, actually,” he remarks at Derek. He’s flailing his arms around as he speaks and attempts to shed his winter layers, unwrapping the scarf from his neck and shrugging out of his coat before hanging them both on the rack next to the door. He can feel his heart racing just the way it does every time he sees Derek up close, and he knows he must look wrecked from the wind tunnel outside. His hair is mussed and his cheeks are rosy, and he’s huffing through parted lips because his heart is beating so fast, it’s hard for him to breathe normally. It could partially be anxiety, knowing he’s about to get a signature that condemns him to secrecy for the next four and a half months, with someone he’s been pining after for the past four years.

Derek flips through the pages and Stiles hovers in front of the desk, toe tapping lightly in his Adidas, answering all of the older’s questions. “Area of study?”

“Music of the 19th through 21st centuries.”

“Project proposal?”

“I’m curious as to why some are more popular than others.”

Derek skims through the schedule plan, and Stiles cringes at his scratchy handwriting that’s littered over the page. “What are you going to do with this research?”

“Presentation. I want to take the specific elements that make these pieces so popular and combine them to make my own piece or something. Maybe do a recital of the pieces in my research, that way it satisfies my proficiency requirement.”

He’s searching Derek’s face for a sign, anything. The older picks up a pen and adds a confirming signature on the last sheet of paper and slides it back across the desk, eyebrow twitching slightly when he meets Stiles’s eyes. “Take this to the music office and the department chair should review and approve it to the registrar. It’ll be the only class on your schedule for a month, and then you’ll be able to pick the last few classes you need to graduate.”

“Technically, I only need two music history electives and a proficiency exam to graduate, so you actually get to keep me for the rest of the semester,” Stiles smirks back, watching Derek’s eyebrow twitch _again._

"I’m thrilled.” Derek scribbles some notes on a major requirement sheet that he tugs out of an accordion folder on the corner of his desk and hands it to Stiles. He takes it and grins, trying to capture those gorgeous green eyes again, and when he does, _there it is_. _The eyebrow twitch._ “You'll have to write a research paper in addition to the presentation and do a thirty-minute recital or proficiency test to fulfill all the credits, I hope you know."

"I do." The knowing smirk is back, curling on Stiles’s lips. "I _also_ know that means you can say yes when I ask you to dinner in four months." _Is he interested?_

Derek ignores it. “You can start your research tomorrow.”

“Are you free tomorrow?” Stiles catches the subtle eyebrow twitch once more at his question and feels the confidence rushing through him. Maybe Derek _is_ interested in him.

“I’m off tomorrow and Friday.” 

Stiles smiles and gathers his stuff. “It’s a _date_, I’ll text you specifics.”

And then he leaves before Derek has the chance to say anything. _It’s definitely a date._

———

“Do you always invite students to your house?” Stiles pries once they enter the apartment building. It’s a huge, towering concrete building in downtown LA, and it looks _terrifying._ Is he about to get murdered? Honestly, maybe. He’s only seen scary buildings like this in horror films and The Twilight Zone, so he _definitely_ has a reason to be skeptical.

The inside is just as bare and sterile, and it doesn’t seem like there are many residents that live in the building, and they take a service elevator up to the penthouse. “Yes,” Derek replies, nonchalantly, and Stiles admits a sort of magical feeling he had faded away, as if Derek had looked at him and tagged on, _‘You’re not special.’_ Derek’s hands reach for the handle of the steel barn door and he turns to the boy behind him. “Don’t give me a reason to kick you out.”

He opens his mouth to say something sarcastic and Derek slides the door open to reveal a minimally furnished loft with bookshelves holding _hundreds_ of books and scores. The floor is a dark gray concrete that’s reflecting the bright daylight flooding in through the massive wall of windows in front of him, highlighting an old wooden table littered with scores and a small living area in the center of the room. “Wow,” Stiles whispers, “This is incredible.” He has to tell his legs to move forward to where Derek’s already taking off his coat, and he shrugs out of his red hoodie to offer to the older. “Here, hang it up with yours, will you?” and it’s wickedly snatched out of his hands before he just floats over to the first bookshelf he sees.

Derek’s angrily huffing but hangs up the hoodie nonetheless, and Stiles picks out a score and flips through it. “I’d tell you to make yourself at home, but then you’ll never leave.”

“Fine, take away the temptation,” the boy shoots back, and he turns to where Derek is hovering behind him, watching his fingertips gently grace the spines of each book before he tucks the score in his hand back on the shelf.

He wiggles his eyebrows at Derek and catches a hint of a smirk before he makes his way towards the spiral staircase in the back of the loft. “All the books down here are French, I think there’s some German and Russian on the bookshelf by the staircase, you’ll probably get some info on Schoenberg and Stravinsky, and the British is over by the elevator. I’ve got a book of Britten’s letters to Peter Pears. I’ll go make some coffee.”

“Cool.” Stiles peeks around the bookcase and spots a queen bed, sheets rumpled from where it was hastily made in the morning, and he can’t help but wonder if those chocolate brown sheets are where the musky pine scent of the loft is wafting from. Derek’s feet start clanking up the steps and Stiles stares up at one particularly old manuscript, copyrighted 1863, Gabriel Fauré_._ His fingers brush the yellowed paper and over the worn spine before he turns toward the stairs. “Are all of these fair game?”

Derek nods and continues up the stairs, yelling over his shoulder, “If you touch anything that isn’t a book, I swear to _god_ you’ll find out whether or not I’m actually a murderer.” He catches a glimpse of Stiles gently replace a small bust of J.S. Bach where he found it amidst the books before he rummages around the kitchen for some mugs. He’s starting to think he’s made a mistake, inviting Stiles into his home, his _space,_ where it’s his and his only. Practically, it makes sense to have Stiles work here; Derek may be strong, but the last thing he wants to do is carry dozens of books to his office for Stiles to take home and then if he _loses _any…Derek wills the thought away and starts brewing a cup of coffee. He leans against the counter and his brain starts processing again, and the downsides to having the kid come to his loft _clearly _outweigh the pros.

He’s _nosy_, and Derek has no doubt he’s going to find Stiles snooping around places he shouldn’t. He’s _annoying,_and albeit, it’s a little endearing—Derek would _never_ admit that to himself—he isn’t sure how long he’s going to be able to handle Stiles hitting on him every chance he gets. He switches the mugs in the coffeemaker and pours a little French vanilla in the brewed cup, trying to vaguely remember how Stiles takes his iced coffee. He hears rummaging around downstairs and pages being turned and he wonders if Stiles will be there often enough to leave his cedary scent in the pillows on the couch and the sheets of his bed…_no, Derek, stop._

He picks up the other mug of coffee and gently stirs in a teaspoon of sugar before gripping the first cup for Stiles. A note rings through the loft and honestly, if Derek didn’t have the mugs hovering over the countertop, they’d be shattered on the floor.

Stiles is downstairs, letting his fingers glide across the smooth expanse of ivories before him, and the instrument is warm and inviting the way it fills the space from floor to ceiling. The Fauré pieces are new to him, and he’s sightreading them slower than the marked tempo, but he’s so engulfed in the score, in the music, the way the pages are cream-colored and wrinkled from use with pencil markings scribbled in the staves and the margins, like the score was well-loved before it even came into Derek’s possession, and—

“I thought I told you not to touch anything.”

Stiles feels his body jolt in response, his mind letting him know he may as well have thrown himself off of the piano bench. “I—sorry, I know it was covered but I just—it was shiny and—” he can’t even form a proper sentence.

Derek walks backward to place a mug of coffee on the low table in the living area before sipping from the other cup in his hands. “I didn’t think it would still be in tune.”

“It’s more beautiful than I ever imagined.” He brushes his fingers over the keys, listening to Derek slurping his coffee from his place behind him. “How do _you_ have one of the only Kuhn-Bösendorfers in the world?” Stiles wonders how much Derek’s getting in royalties and for being a college professor in order to afford a piece that’s over a _million _dollars.

The older offers, “Family inheritance,” before the couch creaks under his weight falling onto it. He reaches into his bag and takes his laptop out, along with a few books and a half-done crossword, sipping his coffee again and attempting to avoid staring at where Stiles looks so perfectly placed at the piano like he was meant to be there. “I’ll be working if you have any questions. I can translate any French if you need it. There’s a few books in there you won’t be able to read.”

Stiles feels his jaw nearly hit the ground and the words come tumbling from his lips before he can stop them. “You’re fluent?”

And as if he couldn’t get any hotter, Derek says something that Stiles doesn’t understand a lick of, but it just _rolls _from his mouth so elegantly and his overactive little brain is already short-circuiting attempting to figure out a way to get Derek to say something else. He does, however, understand when the man says, “Just—take your time, use whatever. Just don’t annoy me.” And honestly, that’s probably the dumbest thing he could’ve requested, because Stiles knows if he’s anything, it’s annoying.

He spends the next few hours rummaging around each of Derek’s bookshelves, pulling texts and scores and thumbing through them, occasionally bringing one or two or _twenty-one_ books to Derek to get an opinion or a translation or to just stare at him up close where he can get lost in the sea green of Derek’s flawless eyes. Sometimes, Stiles pulls a manuscript and takes it to the piano, just to get a feel for it in his hands. He can read the notes and hear the music in his head, but he likes the way the pieces fit in his fingers and the thrill of tapping out a piece he’s never seen before is _exhilarating_ to hear it ringing from the strings. He thinks Derek likes it too, the way he’ll recommend scores for Stiles to look at, to play through, “if you want,” Derek says, but Stiles thinks _he’s_ the one who really wants to hear them. The older’s been reading and re-reading the same page of his book for over an hour, and Stiles notices, because those brooding eyes flit down at the book every time he glances back at him from the bookshelf.

They order Chinese take-out somewhere in between lunch time and dinner time, and Derek resigns to helping Stiles find relevant information for his project a little while after the food gets delivered. It’s nice, peaceful, having someone with so many resources just recommend a drop from this fountain of knowledge, and Stiles hopes it happens again.

And it does. Actually, it becomes sort of a routine for them, at least on every day off Derek has. Stiles finds himself dropping by the office with coffee on the days Derek _does_ have to work, but on the off days, he drops by the loft, digging through primary and secondary sources, pulling excerpts from manuscripts, spending more time in Derek’s place than in Scott’s, where he _lives._ Sometimes they order food, sometimes Derek finds himself cooking, sometimes Stiles runs late and brings something with him, but it becomes strangely comfortable, natural almost, and their time together seems to have some semblance of friendship rather than something so rigidly professional, which was _exactly_ the plan in Stiles’s little mastermind anyway. He just isn’t sure if it’s the best thing, and he isn’t sure if he thought it through all the way, and he isn’t sure whether he’s going to tell Derek who he really is or if he’s going to get reamed when Derek figures it out.

Stiles stays at the loft later and later, sometimes leaving into the wee hours of the morning—and as much as he wants to stay, Derek makes sure he _always_ leaves—before he drives back to Scott’s and carefully creeps into the apartment, lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, heart pounding with the wave of anxiety that rushes over him every night. And that rush gets stronger each night, along with the musky smell of rosewood and amber that lives in the loft from Derek’s cologne clinging to Stiles’s clothes. It’s the one thing that lulls him to sleep.

———

“You know, you _can_ take a break once every twenty-four hours, right?”

Stiles looks up from his laptop to see Scott standing in the kitchen with a glass of water. He rolls his eyes and holds out an empty mug, waiting for his best friend to fill it with the coffee sitting in the pot. “I’m almost done. I just have to finish programming my recital and then I can print everything to bring to him tomorrow.” Scott laughs and shakes his head, reluctantly filling the outstretched mug. “And I do take breaks,” Stiles retaliates, taking a sip, “I took one at six.”

“It’s two in the morning, Stiles.” Scott puts the pot back and leans against the counter. “You’ve been up late for like, a month, dude. Are you even sleeping?”

“_Yes,_” Stiles snaps, “I’m just _busy_.” His fingers furiously type with one hand as he sips his coffee with the other. He’s almost done, _almost_. “I won’t be long.”

He assumes Scott’s going to leave him there at the kitchen bar, but he doesn’t, instead opting for the chair next to him with a glass of water. “I’ll help. You’ve been on this for so long, you probably just need a fresh set of eyes. Lemme see.”

Stiles obliges and slides the laptop along the countertop to Scott, watching his eyes scan the paper all the while sipping at his steaming mug of coffee. After a few minutes, Scott gets to the incomplete program and stares at it, and before Stiles knows it, his knee starts bouncing in an anxious dance.

“All dead guys?” Scott asks, “Any living composers?”

He opens his mouth to retort something snarky and abruptly shuts it. “I—no. Should I?”

“Philip Glass, Etude No. 9, or there’s—ah, I can’t remember the name of it.” He scratches his head. “We listened to a piece by Sveinsson, something—ah, all, ar—”

“Af hreinu hjarta,” Stiles blurts, “I’ve recorded it.”

Scott’s eyes roll so hard, Stiles thinks they may leave their sockets. “_Of course_ you have.” He pushes the laptop back over and hops down from the barstool. “Just—pick some living people, yeah? And go to bed. You need your beauty sleep for Derek tomorrow.”

“Fuck _off_, Scott.” And there’s a smile on his face that Scott can’t see, but he hears instead.

He spends the better part of the morning in a practice room with stacks of scores and his tentative program order, doing his best to take a second to read through each piece he’s programmed. Has he played most of them already? Absolutely. Stiles knows that playing music he’s already studied in depth is smart on account that he’s easily distracted and the hardest part of finishing his education is going to be focusing on the things that are most important. Like the research paper. And the composition he’s maybe thinking about writing. And the—

His phone buzzes on the lid of the brown upright and his hands leave the ivories for a moment to grab it. An email. _Shit, the benefit concert._ The email is from Allison, reminding him to bring some of his best scores to play through at their meeting the next morning. He’s praying that the composer she pairs him with writes challenging music, because the last thing Stiles wants to be is bored.

The next score in the pile is a book of Liszt, a sticky note peeking its pink edge over the pages as a reminder of the piece, although the book remembers. He lifts it and the spine bends to flutter open to the Paganini Etudes, No. 3 covered in scribbles and fingerings and groupings and it looks like a _disaster_, but Stiles knows exactly what everything means. He starts in on his practice, easily scanning the notes on the page and letting his hands jump around the keyboard, a smile spreading across his face because it feels like he’s never stopped practicing this piece. It’s times like these that Stiles lets his anxiety melt away…until his phone buzzes again, this time to let him know he’s got a meeting with Derek in ten minutes.

Blindly, Stiles tosses his books into his backpack and throws it over his shoulder while he nabs the cup of coffee hovering close to the edge of the upright, the door of the practice room swinging open heavily and thrumming shut after he’s cleared the doorway. A flutter in his chest lets him know he’s nervous, but he isn’t sure if it’s the fact that he’s presenting the musicologist with a musicology research paper or that he’s about to go talk to the man he’s convinced he’s madly in love with. Could be both. Could also be the burrito he ate for breakfast.

When he gets to Derek’s office, the flutters come back even stronger before he even reaches for the door knob. _Take a breath,_ he reminds himself, before walking into the office with the paper in an outstretched hand and words immediately fumbling out of his mouth. “It’s not done, just a rough semblance of thoughts. There’s a tentative program order in the back of the tentative recital I’m planning, and I’d be eternally grateful if you’d give me your opinion on it?”

Derek doesn’t look at him at first, only reaches for the draft, and Stiles feels his coffee quavering in his hand as his eyes wistfully gaze over the knit navy sweater that’s artfully pulling over the older’s biceps. He looks warm, inviting, with the scruff on his face that’s been there for a few days, or at least since the last time Stiles had seen him three days ago. He bets it’s soft, undoubtedly as soft as Derek’s lips look, and he starts fidgeting when Derek’s eyes jolt up from the papers in front of him to where Stiles is blushing profusely. “I’ll have it edited by tomorrow.”

“Can I possibly come get it tonight? I sort of need the recital order for tomorrow morning.” Stiles picks at the hem of his fingerless gloves, and Derek’s looking him up and down again so intensely, he feels a little violated even though the red flannel hasn’t left where it’s hugging tight to his frame. He isn’t exactly _lying_ to him about needing the recital order—it seems like a good list of pieces for Allison to get an idea of his spectrum of skill—but he definitely isn’t telling the whole truth.

Derek sighs and slowly nods, baffled at the anxiety rolling off of Stiles in _waves_. The boy smiles awkwardly and backs out when Derek shoos him away, nearly jogging down the hall and out of the building to wait for the butterflies to leave his stomach. _Jesus,_ maybe _he_ could use Scott’s inhaler.

——— 

“Where are you going?” Scott asks when Stiles tries to slip out the door unnoticed later that evening.

_Shit. Shitshitshit._ “Uh, to grab a bite.” He’s fidgeting again.

Scott leans over the armrest of his chair to slide the curtains back from where they’re drawn and the sky is raining buckets, brightening up the night with dazzling cracks of lightning crawling through the clouds. “You’re _joking_, right?”

“I’m hungry. What, I can’t grab food now?”

Stiles is trying to read Scott’s squinty expression, and the last time he saw it, his best friend so kindly roasted him by— “You’re going to Derek’s house, aren’t you?” Narrow brown eyes follow him when he walks back to the hall closet to grab a coat. “Oh my God, you _are_. Stiles, is this a booty call? Are you _sleeping_ with our musicologist?” Scott feigns offense, and Stiles just rolls his eyes.

“I’m picking up a draft, so fucking relax.”

“_Sure_, you are. With beer.”

“I _am_. And stop looking at me like that.” He grabs the keys to his Jeep and a six pack off of the counter before flipping off a smirking Scott. “Suck my dick.”

“That’s Derek’s job, not mine,” Scott yells back as Stiles walks out the door.

The pizza joint is crowded regardless of the storm outside, and Stiles still waits in line anyway, despite not knowing what to even order. The cashier patiently smiles until he gives up and asks, “I’m picking up for a friend who usually comes here, but he didn’t tell me what to get. Derek Hale?”

And she looks at him like he’s losing his mind.

“Uh,” he tries again, “Tall, dark, always looks pissed off? Glasses sometimes, maybe scruff, the most terrifying green eyes you’ve ever seen?”

“Large sausage and pepperoni,” she replies, reaching to take his card to swipe. “He comes in here every Thursday night, right about now.” He takes the card back and she hands him a receipt. “It’ll be ready soon. We’ve taken to making them in advance.”

Stiles smiles gently and hovers over by the pick-up counter where a few others are waiting for their pizzas. It comes in less than five minutes, and he uses the box to shield his head from the pouring rain as he walks back out to his car.

The entire ride to Derek’s loft is filled with the anxiety-fueled bounce in the knee he isn’t using to drive. _What if he isn’t home? _Should he wait at the loft, or is that too clingy? The pounding of raindrops on the roof of the jeep drowns out the tapping of his fingers against the steering wheel and the lull of _Nordlandsbilleder_ running through the car’s shitty cassette player. Dough and garlic waft around the cabin and it’s making his stomach growl in anticipation. Hopefully Derek’s home.

He isn’t.

Lucky for Stiles, he never actually put his coat on, and he’s standing soaked through in the hallway outside of the loft for the next ten minutes. Sighing, he sets the beer down on the concrete and shivers, a disgusting _squish_ resounding through the empty hall as he takes a step. “Maybe I should go,” he whispers to himself. _Is that my anxiety talking? _He checks his watch and knows Derek should be home any minute.

And then he’s there, drenched and dripping water on the floor from the pea coat in his hand and the hair matted to his forehead. It’s dark and cold in the hallway, the only light coming from a dim incandescent in the corner, but Stiles can still see the surprise in Derek’s eyes that haven’t left his own since the older’s come home. “Shit, you ate already, didn’t you?” is the only thing he can manage.

“I, uh—no, I h-haven’t yet-t,” Derek replies, and Stiles can’t help but smirk at the mild chattering of the man’s teeth and how cute he looks when he’s stuttering. He holds up the beer and the pizza and nods toward the door, and Derek just thrusts the keys into the lock to slide it open.

“Perfect.” Stiles smiles, pushing past Derek to lead into the loft, and the older rolls his eyes before he drops his bag under the rack where he’s hung his pea coat to drip dry. “I wasn’t sure what kind of pizza you like, but you seem like a sausage and pepperoni type to me, so that’s what I got.” He fails to mention that he himself is _also_ a sausage and pepperoni type, in more ways than one. Derek’s wandering around the living room, flicking on lamps to wash the loft in a warm glow to contrast the harsh droplets thrumming against the windows. Stiles sets the beer down on the table and a crack of thunder startles them both, the lights flickering off just as quickly as Derek turned them on.

“S-Son of a b-bitch-ch,” the older mutters from somewhere near the French bookshelf, and once his eyes adjust, Stiles snickers at the older trying to feel his way around the furniture. He finds the bookshelf and knocks the bust of Bach onto the floor in his haste to grasp the matchbox. He strikes a match in the darkness, a warm, orange glow illuminating his exasperated face before it goes out. “F-Fuck.” 

Derek squints when Stiles turns on his phone flashlight, a hand coming up to shield his eyes. He’s shivering still and the rainwater falling from his hair is only making the chill over his shoulders worse. He can’t see _anything_ except the flashlight, so he can only assume he’s walking toward Stiles. “I’m going to c-change,” he says, and the boy follows Derek with the light, across the room, up the stairs, and into a bedroom off the kitchen.

He stops in the doorway to gaze at the family photos and Derek lets him. He isn’t sure why, but it feels right, _comfortable_, and Stiles is the first to not ask questions that prod into his personal life. The only sounds are coming from the storm beating down on the building and the slick dragging of Derek’s wet button down as he slides it off of his body. He resists the urge to wring it out and instead rifles through a drawer to find a warm, dry replacement. The light faintly illuminating the room flees, and he turns to see Stiles admiring the titles on the bookshelf behind him, quickly distracted.

“Stiles, c-come here, I need th-the light,” Derek mutters pathetically, going back to the drawer, and he cringes at the sound of his own stuttering voice, goosebumps prickling across the expanse of exposed skin. He still can’t see, and when he turns for the second time, he finds Stiles slack-jawed, studying his form with those liquid amber eyes. He’d be blushing if he weren’t so damn cold, and of course the only thing he can do is glare when he has to repeat himself with the pitiful chattering of his teeth.

“Sorry, yeah, I—you just—”

The phone is snatched from his hands and Derek shoves the wet shirt into them instead. His eyes shift down, back to the drawer. He didn’t even realize Stiles was wearing gloves until now and he feels a little bad for handing him the shirt that’s now undoubtedly soaking them through. Stiles’s eyes are still on him, he can _feel_ them, and he grabs a pair of sweats before glaring up at the boy _still_ in the room. “St-tiles, out.”

“On it,” he shoots back, retreating and pulling the door shut behind him. Derek lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. _A student, Derek. He’s your student._ He pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs, changing quickly into dry clothes before going back to rummaging through his drawers. At the bottom, there’s an old thermal he’d gotten in college at a thrift store with thumbholes in the sleeves, and he smiles when he pulls it out because it’s perfect for Stiles—_Derek. Student.—_to borrow. It’s perfect f Stiles to borrow. There’s a pair of joggers in the drawer too that he grabs and folds in a neat pile with the thermal.

Stiles is still standing right outside the door when Derek swings it open and a bolt of lightning nearly blinds him and the thunder that ensues startles the boy out of his thoughts. He’s just watching the older run a free hand through his limp curls before taking the soggy shirt out of his thin, gloved hands. “Quickly, p-please, before you c-catch c-cold.”

He nods and takes the clothes, pushing into the room past Derek to strip out of his own waterlogged chinos. Derek flips a few light switches in the kitchen and the power still hasn’t returned, so with another sigh, he tosses his shirt into the dysfunctional dryer and heads downstairs to light some candles. He’d taken to keeping them in the bookshelves with the intent that they’d be used for a more _romantic_ purpose, but it seems a power outage is more likely to happen than a date. Not that he’s surprised, it’s not like Derek actively seeks out romance. He’s _busy_, and he’d rather be well-traveled anyway, although it wouldn’t hurt to have someone to travel _with. _

He spreads out the candles around the living room and sits on the couch with the pizza open next to him, starting his lesson plan for the next few classes. The door upstairs squeaks open and Derek quickly responds, “The dryer is in the room on the other side of the kitchen. You can toss your clothes in and I'll run it when the power comes back,” without looking over his shoulder.

So, Stiles does, and makes his way to the spot on the couch next to the pizza. “Thank you,” he says earnestly through another bout of thunder, “I really appreciate the clothes and the…clothes.”

“Consider it reimbursement.” Derek gestures to the pizza. “You’re going to be here for a while, so we might as well talk about your draft.”

Stiles ends up falling asleep around ten with _Music, Gender, and Culture_ splayed open in his lap to an essay about Biology and Culture: Music, Gender, Power, and Ambiguity, and Derek doesn’t wake him. He tells himself it’s because Stiles is tired and because his clothes are still wet and because there’s a raging storm outside, but he knows it’s really because Stiles looks permissive and beautiful with the way his skin glimmers in the—_no, Derek._ He stops himself. The rain lets up. The backlight on the number dial over the service elevator flickers dimly on. Derek still leaves the candles.

There’s a blanket hanging over the back of the sofa, a gift from his sister Laura, and Derek carefully unfolds it to delicately spread it over the boy’s body. He moves the book from his lap and leaves it open on the table in case Stiles wakes soon before draping the blanket across him. He looks so warm and peaceful in Derek’s clothes, besides the water still clinging to his tawny hair, and the older can’t help but smile.

He takes the time to run upstairs to toss in more laundry with the wet clothes already in the dryer and it starts steadily humming when he turns it on. He heats a kettle on the stove to make himself a cup of earl grey and maybe another one for later…or maybe a cup for Stiles. His schoolbag slumps on the counter in the kitchen, soggy where he tossed it, forgotten in his haste to light up the loft. Inside, Stiles’s draft lay limply in a folder damp, and Derek digs around the bag for a pen to continue editing.

The sofa downstairs lets out small creaks and Derek instinctively holds his breath as to not wake the sleeping boy. He peeks over the railing and finds Stiles just as peaceful as he left him, now facing upward with the softest of smiles on his perfect lips. The kettle wheezes behind him and Derek makes quick work of moving it off of the burner before it makes too much noise.

An hour and a half passes while he edits and launders upstairs, taking his tie to make sure he guides Stiles in the right direction for the paper. He’d gone over the draft once and talked with Stiles about the revisions he’d made without going to get it, and they’d spent more time with Stiles relaying his thoughts and intentions of his project rather than analyzing the draft line by line. It seems to focus the boy more, without the structure, more conversational. It makes it easier to just guide the draft from there, advise the boy on how to get his thoughts across, and that’s what Derek scribbles in the margins while he sips at his tea.

Derek takes the draft downstairs and sets it on the corner of the table for Stiles to find it. He also brings with him a hot mug of tea for when the boy inevitably wakes up at an inconvenient moment, still sipping his own mug full. The dryer buzzes upstairs and Derek sets his tea down to go fold the warm clothes before they end up in a wrinkled mess.

By the time he walks back downstairs with the folded flannel and chinos, Stiles is already gone.

——— 

“Is he okay? He hasn’t moved the whole week.”

“He’s got some shit to do today so I don’t think it’ll be much longer.”

There’s silence for a bit before Stiles finally lets one eye flutter open to see Liam and Scott drinking coffee in the kitchen. “Should we wake him?”

Scott scoffs. “He’ll be up in a second. He just has to smell the coffee.”

Sure enough, the aroma of dark roast hits and Stiles sits up from his place on the couch, papers fluttering across the carpet. “What time is it?”

“Eight,” Liam answers. “It’s Monday, if that means anything to you.”

_Monday. _It means he has to present Derek with his composition in five hours and then he has a meeting tomorrow with Chris Argent in regard to the benefit concert. Which means he’ll need his composition with him to play for Chris, in case they haven’t chosen a composer for him. _Ugh._ “It means that this week is going to be a massive pain in my ass.” His Adderall hasn’t been working right and he can’t focus. But the manuscript needs to be done like, _yesterday. _“Either one of you know how to finish a medley of overplayed classical pieces in less than a day?”

Scott brings a mug to where Stiles is still on the couch. “I can’t even write a twelve-tone row and that’s literally just numbers one through twelve.”

Liam’s scanning the papers on the floor until Scott moves back to the middle of the kitchen. “At this point, you’re almost better off writing down composers and pulling them out of a hat.” The room is silent for a moment, and when Liam looks up, Stiles is staring right into his baby blues. “What?”

“That’s actually genius.”

It takes three hours, and Stiles is sitting at the piano with a list of names and melodies in his fingers, trying to figure out how to weave them together into a semblance of harmonies. “Okay, hear me out here.”

Scott and Liam are both laying on the floor amid strewn scores, tossing a paper ball back and forth between them. “We haven’t stopped listening,” Liam mutters. “But continue.”

“It starts, Schubert Symphony 8 and Verdi La Donna é Mobile simultaneously, in A-flat. Then, cue Boccherini’s Minuetto. Cut everything except Verdi, add Für Elise. Beethoven leads into CPE Bach’s Solfeggietto, _and_ _keeps playing_. Add Paganini for a hot minute but replace him with Mozart’s Turkish March and put Grieg’s Piano Sonata on top. Cut them all.” Stiles is playing all of it as he explains, and it’s making so much sense in his hands but not in his brain. “Wait, keep Beethoven, just up an octave, and add Lacrimosa from Mozart’s requiem under. And Schubert’s Serenade. Yes.”

He just keeps talking and playing and Liam glances over at where Scott’s coloring in the letters on the title page of a manuscript. “How long will he do this for?”

“About fifteen more minutes,” Scott replies without looking up. “Then, he’ll write it down and do it again.”

Stiles turns what is meant to be an hour meeting into a whole day ordeal and he walks back into the apartment near midnight thirty. Scott and Kira are finishing a movie on the couch in the clean living room. Scores that had been on the floor are neatly piled on the coffee table in front of the pair until Stiles drops his edited manuscript on the top of the pile and it topples over, papers sliding back onto the carpeting,

Kira’s sigh echoes in the quiet apartment. “No good?”

“I have to rewrite the entire thing.”

“_What?”_

“He just drilled me on overplayed classical music of three hours and ripped my composition to shreds and now I have to rewrite the entire thing, I’m so mad.” His sentences slur together and he takes a deep breath. “What the fuck do I bring to my meeting tomorrow?”

Kira and Scott look at each other, and then to the floor. “Just bring what you have?”

“Yeah,” Scott agrees, “the worst they can do is tell you it sucks and that they’ll get you a composer.”

———

For the entire next month, he’s slaving away at the keyboard trying to make a piece that’s up to Derek’s standards. He’s managed to incorporate over sixty pieces into a six-minute piece of music that he’s going to assume Derek would be proud of. _Shit,_ he’s really fucking proud of it. Some of the transitions he’s figured out are so goddamn smooth, you don’t even notice the key changes. And better yet, he’s finished it early. Yes, Stiles managed to complete something two days _before_ the deadline and the meeting. Naturally, it means he now has an excuse to show up at Derek’s office the day before their scheduled meeting.

But he can’t bring himself to open the door. What if he’s in a bad mood? Will he hate this one too? Is the entire second page going to end up red from where it’s been re-barred for no reason? A massive wave of anxiety rushes over his body and his hands start getting clammy before he even reaches for the doorknob. _Just go._

_Deep breath._ He opens the door with his elbow. “Knock knock.” Stiles’s face peeks into the office. “I have—whoa, you good?” It’s not that Derek looks especially pale or angry, he just looks _happy_ for once in his life. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you genuinely smile before.” He hands Derek one of the warm cups of coffee he’s got and the older takes it, and Stiles can feel his heart pounding. Will there be a sweaty hand print on the cup from where he’s sweated through his gloves? Anxiety says yes, but reality says no, there is _not_ a sweaty handprint.

“I…” Derek can’t seem to get a word out. The younger calms a little in knowing that the professor is in some sort of good mood because he just _smiles._ “Someone is commissioning a piece from me for a benefit concert in May. And I—I mean, I’ve been commissioned before but this—I—my favorite pianist is going to play it.”

It’s weird seeing Derek like this, flustered, excited, processing an emotion besides irritation, and Stiles can’t help but smile in return because, _wow_, Derek’s glowing and his eyes are bright and jade and wrinkling in the corners where his grin is getting too wide for his face to contain it, and he’s smitten with this, knowing that this is something he could see for the rest of his life and never get tired of it and—_oh, shit, Stiles, stop._ He feels his own smile falter. He _cannot_ be thinking long-term right now. So, he just sighs contentedly and hopes one day, he’ll be able to make Derek smile like that. “That’s fucking _insane_! Congrats! I mean, I’m not surprised, you’re literally one of the most sought out scholars right now, but still…” He trails off.

“I hope I get to meet him, tell him how much I—”

“Meet who?”

Derek rolls his eyes as if Stiles is supposed to read his mind. “The pianist.”

“Which _is…_?” He’s curious now, and sipping his coffee, he thinks maybe he could learn from whoever Derek seems to be so hot for. He remembers recommending him to Chris and now he’s just curious as to who’s going to be playing his music in the program.

Derek’s cringing at how excited he’s getting just talking about this. Like, there’s a tightness in his chest because he’s talking so fast and excitedly that he can’t even breathe properly and the last thing he wants to do is give Stiles yet _another_ reason to poke fun at him. But _fuck_, he’s commissioning for _Mieczyslaw_. “Haven’t you been to _any_ of my lectures? I promote him as a resource for teachers to use in the classroom. He does this _thing_…I’ve never heard anyone play as musically as he does. It’s incredible, really. Captivating, emotional, flawless, passi—”

“I get it, he’s a _dreamboat_, but who is he?” Stiles feels himself getting impatient and a _little_ jealous, and he just pretends Derek isn’t glaring at him again because that comment may have come out snarkier than he anticipated, so he just keeps sipping his coffee.

Derek turns back to his computer. “Mieczysław.”

And Stiles inhales his fucking coffee and nearly sputters it all over the carpet. “Mie—_Mieczysław_?” The name rolled off of Derek’s tongue like he was born to say it and Stiles is gasping for sir since his latte just accelerated down his windpipe. He’s choking and Derek isn’t the least bit fazed by it, just keeps reading his emails while Stiles is actually _freaking out._ Does Derek know? _No,_ he thinks,_ he wouldn’t be this amazed or this calm if he knew. _No one ever was, which is primarily the reason he’s decided to lay low for a while, but now, Derek…

“He’s a big deal in the field of music education. We all use his tracks as tools. They tend to give students a new appreciation for solo piano music. You’ve listened to him, haven’t you? Or do you not _read_ the handouts I give at lectures? I have him playing right now, for Christ’s sake.”

“Not a clue,” Stiles says, using the back of his gloved hand to wipe the latte from his chin. He can hear faint piano coming from the speaker in the corner of the office and _shit, _yeah, that’s him all right. _Play it cool, Stiles._ “What the hell kind of name is Mie—uh, Mees—Meechislaw? What the fuck, how do you—”

“Mieczysław,” Derek responds without looking up, instead choosing to glower at the lesson plan he’s writing, and Stiles is nervous and fucking _aroused_ from how Derek’s silky voice sounds saying _Mieczysław _and he just wants to hear it _forever. _“It’s a Polish name.”

Stiles watches Derek’s stone-cold expression while he drafts an email. “Say it again.” _And again and again and again. _

“Mieczysław?” he responds, like it’s a question. Derek takes a moment to look up at Stiles, who’s got a pink blush creeping up the back of his neck, mouth parted slightly, perfectly pink, and Derek knits his brows together in an attempt to ignore how obscene the boy looks. “I—why are you here? I thought our meeting was tomorrow.”

“I—it is, I just finished early and figured you’d want to look over it before or something.” Stiles flutters his long lashes in slight embarrassment because he’s _really_ hoping Derek doesn’t notice how tight his jeans have become. He digs through his bag and hands the professor a new manuscript, neatly printed from notation software, and it has notes and dynamics and _everything._ “I, uh, took your advice. There’s a list stapled to the back of every piece I used, sorted by composer, in case you wanted to check.”

Derek skims through several pages and already picks out melodies from Bach, Mozart, Paganini, layered over Tchaikovsky and Haydn.

“I put in some extra Bizet…I have a soft spot for _Carmen._”

“It looks decent. I’ll edit this tonight for our meeting in the morning.” He peers at the boy thumbing at the seams of his fingerless gloves, still sporting a splotchy flush over his cheeks, and after he mutters a ‘thanks’ and is halfway out the door, Derek feels a tug in his chest and finds himself calling after him, “Hey and, uh, thanks for the coffee. It’s on me tomorrow.”

_Stiles, get out of there._ For some reason, he lets a smirk play lips and throws a wink over his shoulder as he nearly runs to the parking lot in a dodgy effort to save what little dignity he has left. _Wow._ Really wasn’t expecting Derek’s voice saying his name to have such a profound effect on him. _God,_ he wants to hear it again.

———

Stiles really starts questioning his life choices when he leaves spring break at home early to come back to school. To be fair, Chris did say he was supposed to be getting some manuscripts before the week’s end and to be honest, Stiles was getting a little antsy waiting for them. What was taking Derek so long?

He’s sitting alone in the apartment, knee bouncing, coffee in hand, some dumb show playing on the tv in the background. He’s never checked his email this religiously before—the near five thousand unread emails really proved that—and so far, he’s received nothing. His research paper is done and resting on top of the apple pie he picked up at the old bakery back in Beacon Hills at the suggestion of his father. “It’s his favorite,” the Sheriff had said as he forcibly removed the old Hale fire case file from Stiles’s curious little fingers. So maybe snooping was wrong, but he just _needed to know_. And now that he’s wistfully looking at the pie…_maybe_ he should go see if Derek’s home.

He _absolutely_ paces for about five minutes before knocking on the sliding door. Twice. _Ugh, sweaty palms. _He’s anxious again, and his fingers are drumming against the bottom of the pie box in his hands. Is he being annoying? Is Derek even here? Should he knock again?

He knocks again.

And Derek’s right there when the door slides open, beautiful and shirtless and oh my _god_, Stiles bets this is exactly what he looks like just rolled out of bed. Minus the cup of coffee. Is he drooling? It feels like it.

“Stiles?”

He can’t stop _staring._ He doesn’t know what’s better. Derek’s dark locks are perfectly tousled and messy, and his glasses are framing his gorgeous, irritated jade eyes and the scruffy scowl that’s sipping the black coffee in his hand. His shirtless form is just so _stacked_, and Stiles is _still _scanning Derek’s body and it’s only when he hears, “Hey, Stiles, can _help_ you?” does he finally close his dry ass fucking mouth.

Derek won’t admit that he’s absolutely crossing a professional line here, because he really couldn’t care less, and he’s enjoying the amusement that he’s getting watching Stiles try and say something. “I, uh—um—” He offers a pained look as he tries to sputter out a sentence. “Pie?”

The older steps aside and lets Stiles swiftly move past him into the apartment, laughing to himself at the blatant avoidance of eye contact. “It’s the Saturday after break, why aren’t you home?”

“Don’t sound so excited, _fuck_, Derek,” Stiles mutters, climbing the stairs without looking back at the older in fear he’ll pop one of the most inconvenient boners of his short fucking life. _Wow, that sounded way more sexual than it was supposed to._ What is he doing? He can’t even angrily insult Derek anymore, _Jesus, fucking pull yourself together._

“I actually—”

“The pie is actually, uh, from my dad.” Stiles rummages around for plates and brings two slices back down to where Derek is standing, peering out the wall of windows over downtown LA, now in a white tank that he doesn’t really think is much better. “You mentioned you were from Beacon Hills a while back and I may or may not have dug around the police files while I was home. My dad said it’s your favorite.”

Derek looks down at the slice and scowls but takes the plate graciously and nods. “Give him my regards.”

They eat in silence, a comfortable silence, Stiles isn’t sure whether or not to apologize. He definitely shouldn’t’ve been snooping into Derek’s past, into his personal life, into literally everything he wants to keep private. He feels bad about it, but when he sees Derek watching him in the reflection in the window, the feeling goes away. The Sheriff was there for him back then, and the least Stiles can do is be there for him now, if he lets him anyway. He just keeps on eating his pie.

“Well, I guess I should go,” Stiles says after a while, glancing over at Derek, who he’s been watching study his profile in the gleam of the window for the past ten minutes.

Derek stops him. “Actually, I have a favor to ask.” His plate finds its way to the dining table and Stiles saunters behind him when he walks toward the couch. “Can you sightread this?”

It’s odd, Derek asking instead of telling. The pages he hands Stiles are covered in markings, dynamics, tempos, but he nods when he sees the top of the page where the composer’s name reads _Derek Hale._ “I—yeah. Did you—is this for the piano man?”

“My mom’s favorite Fauré. I figured it time to rearrange it.” His features are soft for a moment before they harden back into a scowl. “And if it gets your head out of my ass about my compositions…I want to hear it on a real instrument anyway.” He nudges Stiles to the piano—he’d had someone come tune it over the break—and the boy sits down, his hands hovering over the keyboard in their burgundy fingerless coverings. He looks up at Derek, a frown engraved into his features as he stares at the manuscript leaning on the piano stand in front of the boy’s face.

“You’re sure?”

“Shut up, Stiles, and play the fucking piece before I change my mind.”

_There’s Derek._ The boy obliges and starts gracefully moving his hands over the keys, honey eyes darting across the page, body lightly rocking with the gentle chords erupting from his fingertips. Derek gets lost in it. He gazes at Stiles while the soothing music washes over him, and he’s unconditionally stunning, the way his tongue presses on his bottom lip and his eyelashes flutter while he skims the staves. His fingers reach up to flip the page carefully with one hand while the other rolls the chords he’s memorized from the previous measure, and _wow_, those _long, slender fingers_. He wants so badly to see what the rest of his hands look like, past the first knuckle, everything his gloves and his thumbhole sleeves have been disguising for the past three months.

“Derek, I need you to turn the next page,” he whispers, trying not to ruin the trance the older seems to be in.

He listens and moves to grip the corner of the page. “Tell me when.” Stiles whispers an affirmation but doesn’t look up. Derek can feel the younger’s breath ghosting over his bicep and goosebumps prickle up his arms and flood across his skin and _what is this?_ _Stop it, Derek._

“Now,” and those whiskey eyes flicker up to stare straight through him.

The ending comes swiftly, and Stiles doesn’t add flourishes or make it grandiose, he plays it as written and it’s flawless and soft when it rings through the warm, wet acoustic of the loft. It hangs there in the air, thick and cozy. Derek’s still remarkably close to him, and Stiles can feel the heat radiating from the older’s skin on the back of his neck from where he’s watching from over his shoulder.

“It’s beautiful, Derek,” he says, holding the manuscript up over his head. “They’d be crazy not to program it.”

“Thank you,” Derek replies, face firmly frowning once again. “They’ll probably choose this program anyway. I hope they at least give him a choice of which he wants to play.”

Stiles turns. “You made more than one?”

“Two.”

“Do you wanna hear that one, too?” He wiggles his fingers in Derek’s face with a smirk. “I know these guys are dying to play it.”

Derek wanders back to the sofa and picks up an old, leather-bound book of essays by Saint-Saëns filled with untranslated French text. “I’d rather they play through your second draft.”

———

Four months in, Derek gets an email from the Music Department Chair containing the composite transcripts for his advisees. He prints out all of them and neatly sorts them into the manila folders he keeps for each student, making it easier to pull for the advisor meetings coming up in the next week. Stiles’s transcript misses the folder and flutters on the floor, where he picks it up and reads over it. _Why can they never fucking get these right?_ It says Stiles is fully completed, every requirement is fulfilled, and he’s set to graduate in a few weeks. So, Derek gives the department chair a call and that’s when he finds out Stiles cancelled his recital and scheduled a proficiency exam in its place, which he’d completed the previous week with two of the piano faculty and the department chair.

Derek’s _fuming._ He’s actively resisting the urge to crumple up the paper and toss it across the room, or better yet, call Stiles and rip him a fucking new one. But, it’s only nine am. He needs to calm himself and figure out _how_ he’s going to rip him a new one. Instead, he sends Stiles an email, making his anger very clear.

_My office. 11 am sharp._

_Derek S. Hale, PhD_  
_Chair, Musicology_  
_Assistant Professor of Music_  
_USC Thornton School of Music_  
_Los Angeles, CA, 90089-0851  
_ _derekhale@usc.edu_

“What in the _fuck_ were you thinking? Do you know how much fucking _time_ went into planning this? Two goddamn drafts and months of work between the both of us and you’re just going to throw it in the shitter? Un_fucking_believeable.”

Yeah, Derek’s pissed. “Look, I’ll submit it with my research, and I’ll argue for putting it up in the music library as an interactive art exhibit, like an audio thing. Pop the manuscript drafts up on the wall, a noise box, a set of headphones—”

“You don’t _get_ it, Stiles. It’s not an issue as to whether or not you’re going to graduate, because fucking _believe_ me when I say, I will personally walk you out of this fucking school myself.” He’s _fuming_, an irritant rage burning inside of his brain because this _stupid _fucking _kid_ can’t follow a damn instruction. “I am i-fucking-rate, and you wanna know why? Because you don’t _listen_. You go behind me, your _advisor,_ for fuck’s sake! It’s my job to help you, and I can’t do that if you’re fucking me over.”

Stiles knows Derek’s right. He also has his reasons that Derek doesn’t—_can’t_—know. “I’m sorry, okay? I just—” He’s at a loss for words, doesn’t have a fucking clue on what to say. Not when Derek looks both angry _and_ disappointed. _Fuck._ “I didn’t have time for it in my schedule and it got away from me, I—”

“Time, Stiles? This is your _fucking_ education, you _make_ time.” He drags a hand through his hair and he’s been pacing around his office, face burning hot and a temper bubbling in his stomach. “The entire music faculty set aside the time in their schedules to show up and grade your ass, not to mention the _paperwork_ to get everything sorted out, and the _composition…Jesus, _Stiles.”

He’s shuffling from foot to foot, back and forth, wringing his hands around in the thumbholes of his red hoodie. “If it makes you feel any better, I passed proficiency with flying colors.” 

“Get the hell out of my office before I shove my foot up your ass.”

Stiles does.

Three days later, Stiles gets an apology text from Derek offering an extra ticket to the benefit concert.

He sighs and declines it. He’s sure Derek thinks he’s rejecting it in malice, but he doesn’t need a ticket if he’s playing it.

A week later, Derek watches Stiles scuttling into the music library with the manuscripts, the noise box, and the headphones to hook his research and composition up on display.

Derek doesn’t go see it. Not until Stiles leaves, anyway.

The next time he sees Stiles is at graduation, in the sweltering heat out on the quad. The boy is laughing and chattering with his friends in the processional up the campus green and poking and whispering with Scott, who’s sitting directly in front of him in the walking order during the ceremony. Derek stays for the processional and hides out in the shade during the opening remarks, fanning himself through the speakers and sneaking away as the walking started. He’s drenched in his heavy doctoral robes, so he sighs and heads back to his office to take them off and go home to get ready for the benefit concert.

He spots Stiles’s father in the crowd of proud friends and family, and he resists the urge to wave when the sheriff looks in his direction. _Another time,_ he thinks.

Stiles changes in record time after graduation and speeds over to the concert hall with all of the manuscripts of the music and a change of clothes and all his graduation shit in the backseat of the jeep. There aren’t any other cars he recognizes in the alley on the side of the venue, which means Derek isn’t there yet,_ thank God._ He takes a deep breath and gathers the manuscripts before running into the open performer entrance. The security guard waves at him and buzzes him through where Allison is waiting with a clipboard.

“Stiles!”

“Hey, Allison, sorry I’m late.” He anxiously tries to smooth the wrinkles out of his dress shirt underneath the red hoodie he’s tossed on top of everything.

She smiles and shakes her head. “First of all, congratulations on your graduation. Second of all, you’re not late. You just graduated for Christ’s sake, take all the time you need, you deserve it.” Stiles smiles back and accepts the hug she offers. He’s been so jittery all day between seeing Derek and graduating and hanging out with his dad, and now, this whole concert and the possibility of Derek recognizing him as his favorite pianist…

He’s anxious again. “Thanks. Now, uh—what’s the plan? Where do—”

“Yes!” she chimes, “The piano’s set up in a practice room backstage so we can just wheel out the entire thing. Makes setup easier, yeah?”

“Sounds good,” he agrees, following her to a space behind a heavy black curtain. The air conditioning kicks on and a chilly breeze flows through the backstage area and the house seating, blowing ripples through the velvet curtain. He sets up the manuscripts of Derek’s compositions and watches Allison scribble on her clipboard.

“Alright, you have about an hour, unless you want to have drinks and socialize with all the donors.” She laughs when Stiles just raises his eyebrows at her. “I didn’t think you’d bite but I thought I’d ask. Have fun.” And she’s gone.

_Okay, you can do this._ Why is he so nervous? Stiles has performed hundreds of times and yet, this was the one he was nervous for? The manuscript of Derek’s Fauré arrangement stares him in the face and Stiles flips it open, and his right hand just lightly tinkles the melody over the keyboard. His heart hurts. He feels weird. He hasn’t talked to Derek in weeks and has been actively avoiding him. As much as he wants to show up with a coffee or just show up to his house, he just _doesn’t_ and it takes all of his willpower to leave it alone. He stops playing Pie Jesu and sighs again. In closing the score, he knocks it sideways and behind it is the second program Derek had put together, with piano arrangements of Libertango and Tango de Roxanne scribbled with Stiles’s notes for himself. They’re arguably the best pieces that Derek’s arranged and he almost wishes he could’ve put together a program of his own from the music Derek provided, because all he wants to do is see the look on Derek’s face when he hears him play these pieces. With everything Derek’s said about his passion and artistry, god, what Stiles would give to just _watch_ him react to his own music.

_“—__your programs were spectacular, by the way, really stunning.” _Chris buzzes by the curtain and the breeze blows it back out at the passersby.

_“Did you—which one did you choose?”_ Stiles perks up at the smooth sound of Derek’s excited voice. He smiles to himself and the little ache in his chest goes away for a second at the realization that Derek is absolutely here and impossibly thrilled to hear his music. All he could do now was play through the program, make sure the visuals worked, and wait for the curtain call.

Derek’s program comes through about a half hour into the concert, and he still can’t fucking see Mieczysław. There’s a warmth that spreads through his chest though, from what he can see. The entire stage is dark, he doesn’t even know where the piano is, he doesn’t even know where _he _is. And then a single white light floats over the lid of the piano and dissolves with a key press. The dissolution of the note into white smoke illuminates the finger that pressed it, and there’s those _hands._ The mat on top of the piano floods with more lights and Mieczysław’s fingers dance across the keyboard to burst each one into a glow. It’s stunning, the suite, the prelude, the Fauré, but his sonatina from _Carmen…_he could listen to it _forever_. Derek’s mesmerized by it, by _him_, and he finds himself leaning forward in his seat until he’s up against the railing and his hands are clutching the wrought iron so tightly his knuckles are white.

The lights turn to red and Mieczysław’s hands are gliding up and down the instrument without a sheet of music, and Derek still can’t see his face. He _does_ see the black satin lapel of the navy suit jacket shine with each burst of light, he sees the two open buttons of the white dress shirt underneath it, and he sees the shine of the piano reflecting the man’s chin in glimpses as he sways along with the music, along with his arms as his fingers pound out chords and arpeggios and melismatic passages. Derek’s glad he didn’t make it easy, he’s glad he didn’t write in dynamics, he’s glad that he’s letting Mieczysław make all of the artistic decisions because they sound exactly like the ones he would make himself. It’s better than he ever could’ve imagined.

He tries after the concert to find his pianist, to tell him how incredibly grateful he is for the performance, to tell him how much he appreciates the work he does in the field of music, to tell him how he’s unconditionally and irrevocably in love with him even though he’s never seen his face…or maybe just ask him if he’d like to get coffee sometime. Derek pushes through the crowd and roams the backstage area with a jack and coke in his hand in search of Mieczysław, congratulating other performers and composers, greeting scholars, blushing profusely at any mention of his own works. He’s slightly bombarded with people, just like at conferences, and even still at the benefit, people seem more intrigued by how well his arms are filling out the sleeves of his cerulean leather jacket, or how tight his ass looks in his gray slacks. He stumbles upon Allison and offers a slight smile of relief when she pulls him out of the throng of people and mentions something about his piece.

“Am I going to be able to meet my pianist?”

The question strikes her with a tinge of what looks like fear and Derek doesn’t understand why. “I’m sure he’s around here somewhere. I’ll see if I can find him for you.”

Derek nods in appreciation and attempts to follow her through the crowd, but almost immediately gets separated when a waiter takes his now empty glass and replaces it with a fresh flute of champagne.

Stiles floats into the crowd of guests after he puts his lucky red hoodie back on, almost immediately running into Allison fleeing through the mass of people. “Hey, I —”

“Derek’s looking for you, Stiles,” she blurts out, giving him a knowing look. “I told him I’d help him look, but—”

“No,” he interrupts, “he is _not_ looking for me. He can’t know, not here, not like this.”

Allison grabs his arm as he tries to leave and pulls him back. “Whoa, whoa. You wanna tell me what’s going on? This is your moment; you’ve been planning this for months! You get heart eyes every time you talk about Derek, and he’s actually in _love_ with you—let’s ignore the fact that he doesn’t _know_ he’s already met you—and you’re just going to let him get away?”

“I don’t need a lecture right now, _mom_,” Stiles gripes back. “I have a plan, I just—we aren’t on the best terms right now and he can’t find out like this.” He turns around to check his surroundings and sure enough, there’s Derek on his way over to them with a glass of champagne in his hand. _Oh no, ohnononono. _He’s sure he looks like an angry deer in headlights. 

“I thought you were busy,” is all Derek’s says.

“My schedule cleared up,” Stiles replies unwavering, brown eyes shifting between both of Derek’s jade ones, searching for something unknown to the older.

Derek clenches his jaw and sips his champagne. “Well, I’m off to find a pianist that I’ve been searching for all evening, so if you’ll excuse me—”

“Maybe he doesn’t want to be found.”

Derek’s head turns abruptly toward Stiles with something sickening swirling in his stomach. “What?” All he’s ever wanted is to meet this incredible man and now some _kid_ is making him second guess himself?

Stiles looks less afraid, but his eyes are still large and wide. “What if your pianist doesn’t want to be found? Don’t you think enough people would’ve told him that his composer is looking for him and if he wanted to meet you, he’d be here?”

He can’t help but think Stiles might be right. It seems unlikely that Mieczysław would be unaware that the man behind his music has been looking high and low in a desperate attempt to meet him. Derek clenches his jaw again and downs the rest of his champagne, handing the empty glass to the boy in front of him, who reluctantly takes it with a gloved hand. “I suppose I have no other reason to be here then. Thank you, Allison, but I’ll be on my way.” He offers a hand that she then shakes before he just shoots Stiles a glance. “Goodnight.”

Stiles lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “I have to go,” he whispers, and Allison nods.

“Do what you have to. Good luck.”

He smiles softly. “Thanks.”

———

Stiles shows up to Derek’s loft and _may_ or may not have memorized the punch code to unlock the door. He has no idea how long it could be before Derek gets home from that after party Silver Linings was hosting. He did, however, see Chris and Derek talking in the corner before he slipped out to his Jeep, but there’s really no telling on the professor’s estimated time of arrival now that he’s probably more than a few drinks in.

He slides the door open and closes it almost all the way before he hangs up his hoodie on the coat rack next to Derek’s pea coat. _It looks good there,_ he thinks, and he takes his time walking around the loft to illuminate some lamps and candles so that the apartment is basked in a warm glow. Stiles takes to watching for the Camaro at the window and running through his brain how he’s planning on telling Derek who he is. He _definitely_ should’ve thought about this more.

He really can’t even figure out where to start. He just knows he wants Derek to know who he is, the _real_ him, and—what if he gets angry? The chance that Derek getting pissed after finding out yet _another_ important secret Stiles has kept from his is surprisingly high, and now his heart is thrumming quickly in his chest. He feels weird again, but a _good _weird. Thinking about Derek and his mass of intelligence and his excitement for music and his beautiful face just has him feeling _weird, _and—oh _god_, is he in love with Derek? Is that what this is?

“Shit,” he whispers to himself. “I’m in fucking love with Derek. _Shit._” How is he going to sweep him off of his feet now? Stiles rolls up the sleeves of his crisp white dress shirt and undoes the top two buttons to give himself a little mobility while he scours the stacks of books and scores that Derek’s collected over the years. He passes up Chopin and Satie and Messiaen because nothing is showing him exactly what he wants to say. He passes by the large window wall again to see Derek’s car parked in the lot outside, and then he starts to panic.

Stiles hastily rushes to the brilliantly polished Kuhn-Bösendorfer and throws the cover onto the floor so he can prop open the piano lid to full stick, and when he sits down at the keys, he just starts playing whatever his fingers let him. The notes ring through the loft, sharp, passionate, dotted rhythms and chromatic steps and Stiles can hear the door sliding open so Derek can slip through. His heart is still pounding because this is _it,_ and Libertango is _exactly_ what he’s feeling. His whole body feels like it’s on fire, just electric knowing that Derek’s watching his hands float around the keys and he’s hearing this piece for the first time without some trashy computer program butchering it. He has chills running all over his body because he can feel Derek staring at him and his fingers sliding through chords and rhythms and he’s _figuring it out _and _that’s_ why Stiles is almost ready to explode from fear and excitement and passion.

“Sounds different than a laptop, doesn’t it?” Stiles’s voice rings into the room.

It takes Derek a moment and he keeps playing, just waits for the whisper of, “How do you have this?”

The younger stops to turn and look at Derek’s confused, beautiful face, and he feels like he’s going to suffocate. He’s so nervous and terrified and his hands are _so sweaty_, but as soon as he meets those stunning green eyes, he’s calm. His chest is still thrumming quickly with the unknown until the older has a moment of recognition.

“It’s you,” Derek blurts, and Stiles feels his heart crawl up his throat. “Oh my fucking fuck, it’s _you._” His eyes are just darting back and forth between Derek’s, and for a second, he thinks the older’s going to collapse.

“It’s me.” And he wiggles his dumb fingers in front of Derek. “Surprise.”

“You’re _him._”

“You can say it,” Stiles says, standing up from the bench. There’s a sliver of space between his body and where Derek’s standing, and he can feel the warmth of Derek’s skin and the ghost of his breath faintly over his cheeks. He’s studying the older’s face for a sign of anything other than shock, and he catches a glimmer of something shimmering in the green eyes he loves to get lost in.

“You’re Mieczysław,” Derek whispers, and the younger hums in response. He doesn’t know what else to say, and he’s spent so much time being angry at Stiles, all he can do is revel in the way he’s been rendered unequivocally speechless. His gaze trails over the younger’s smooth, freckled skin and he doesn’t meet his eyes, because he’s too busy staring down at those perfect, sinewy fingers that are so nimble and talented and _wow,_ why can’t he stop staring at them? “You’re not wearing gloves.”

Stiles raises his fingers up and Derek’s eyes follow until they’re staring at each other once again, and there’s a glimmer in those amber eyes. Derek can feel his heart pounding loudly in his ears and he’s not sure what to do to stop it. He wants so badly for Stiles to just touch him _everywhere_, he wants to feel those toned hands running up and down his body and, _ugh,_ he wants it now.

“I’m _not_ wearing gloves,” Stiles repeats, gauging the look in Derek’s regard hungry. He lets his mouth drop open slightly and takes a chance, reaching up to brush a thumb over Derek’s stubbled cheek. “I don’t think I have to anymore, do I?”

“No,” and Derek leans into it, dragging his stare down to where Stiles’s obscenely supple lips are parted. “I—”

“You what?” Stiles rubs his thumb down, pulling over the older’s bottom lip and trailing through the scruff over his jugular before dropping it to his side once again. Derek’s skin is on fire. “What do you want?”

He doesn’t know. His mind is spinning, and he’s drunk with the lust that’s been craving the smell of Stiles for nearly two weeks, and he opens his mouth, and nothing comes out but a shaky breath and it’s enough to let his body just reach forward and fist the coarse dress shirt Stiles is wearing. He breathes out, “You.”

Stiles hesitates for a second because, is this _really_ happening? He stares into Derek’s eyes and his pupils are just blown with want, and he still can’t believe it’s real, that he’s here with the man of his literal _dreams._ So, he captures the lips he gazes at so often. He closes the gap between them and his hand is gripping the back of the older’s neck, lips pulling over lips, breaths tangling into each other and Stiles yanks Derek closer until the weight of him knocks the boy backward into the keyboard with a barrage of sour notes. Normally, he’d care about the multi-million-dollar instrument, but he doesn’t in this moment; he’s busy with the feeling of Derek’s hands threading up the back of his neck and the sweet taste of brut champagne fresh on the older’s tongue. “What do you want?” he asks again, this time firmly whispering across Derek’s lips, letting his body slump on the piano bench and the older onto his knees at his feet. “Tell me.”

Derek doesn’t know. He can’t think. _All of it, I want everything_, but the words won’t come out because his brain is short-circuiting. He’s distracted by the way the younger leisurely lounges across his piano and just palms at the tightness pulling at the front of his slacks. _Hands_ is the only thing scratching like a broken record in his mind, the veins and tendons just beautifully morphing and those long fingers pulling taut with the moan he lets spill from his lips and _Jesus_, Derek can’t breathe. Stiles is fucking glowing in the moonlight that streams through the wall of windows, with the way his gracefully dexterous fingers are dancing up to the button on his waistband to pop it open and let the zipper push itself down.

He meets Stiles’s whiskey eyes, heavily lidded and blown wide, and his mouth is dry when he tries to swallow down the lump in his throat and _shit_, he’s _mesmerized. Think, Derek, what do you want?_ “I want—Stiles, please, just fucking touch me.”

“Get up.”

Obediently, Derek does. He looms over the boy until Stiles can climb to his feet, and a single hand plunges hot into the center of Derek’s firm chest, thrusting him backward into the stacks of literature. The warmth from the boy’s hand spreads through Derek’s body like wildfire and he swears he’s burning up because he’s sweating, and Stiles is sweating, and he can’t help it when he lurches forward to nab the younger’s lips again because they’re so _good. _

It arguably catches Stiles off-guard—he was too busy memorizing how hard Derek’s pectorals are under the pads of his fingers—and he stumbles, knocking them both into a bookshelf of German scores, still wetly dragging their mouths together while volumes and scores and the little Bach bobblehead tumble to the concrete below. He’s smirking at how Derek’s doing his best to try and slip Stiles out of his dress shirt while he’s hastily being herded over to the incredibly inviting bed just beyond the books. He watches the man fall backward into the mattress and he lets him go, disheveled and panting at the foot of the bed with the bottom of his shirt half open and rumpled from where Derek’s yanked the tails out of the front of his slacks. The moon is illuminating his skin beautifully and Stiles doesn’t even know where to start.

“Look at you,” Stiles purrs, toeing off his brown monk-straps, “God, you’re perfect.”

Derek’s hands reach up for the buttons on Stiles’s shirt and they slide along the trail peeking out over his waistband, before he gets impatient and rips the shirt open, buttons flying and scattering on the floor. “Take this off,” he mumbles, “Need this off of you.”

Stiles shrugs out of his shirt, frowning a little at the missing buttons, but it melts away when he catches the gleam in Derek’s eyes, the lust that’s shining in them, the hunger. He takes his time, sliding his hands down the center of his chest to hook his thumbs in the waistband of his pants, and Derek lets out a nearly inaudible whimper that makes Stiles pause. “You don’t know how badly I wanted to tell you, Derek, _fuck_, I wanted to tell you. At that coffee shop,” he hums, stepping out of his pants and palming the prominent bulge in the front of his black boxer-briefs, “I bet I could’ve just told you who I was and had you on all fours in the backseat of my jeep, watching my cock disappear into that perfect little ass of yours, and then showed up the next morning to observe your class like I didn’t just fuck the breath out of you the day before.”

He doesn’t miss the whine the older chokes on before he hastily starts kicking off his shoes. Stiles reaches a firm hand out to aid, temporarily stopping Derek from shoving his slacks off. “Please,” he whispers, and Stiles obliges.

“I’ve been trying to get you out of these for the past four months, imagining what you’d look like bent over your desk.” Derek sighs and the smirk that forms on the boy’s face lets him know he’s pleased with himself, how he’s got Derek already so hard and sprawled on the bed like this, fumbling with his clothes because his hands are excitedly quaking in anticipation. He nearly loses it when Stiles helps him, sliding a hand behind his knee and tugging him forward on the bed to help unzip the leather jacket and jerk it over Derek’s brawny biceps before he returns to unbutton the dampened dress shirt sticking to his abdomen. “Jesus Christ, you’re wearing too many fucking clothes.”

He leans down and nibbles at the hinge of Derek’s jaw while his fingers make quick work of the remaining buttons hiding the dark hair lightly covering the man’s chest. Derek helps, baring the side of his neck to give Stiles more access and his hands desperately try to tug his shirt open because it’s taking up the valuable _time _that those hands should be using to explore his body. He catches a set of lusty brown eyes and their faces are so close, he grabs the boy’s neck and drags him down, “You should’ve told me,” he murmurs against Stiles’s lips, kicking the pants off of his feet while the younger pushes his shirt off of his shoulders. “I would’ve eaten you alive.”

“No,” Stiles says between kisses, “All I’ve been looking forward to is wiping that flawless, angry little scowl right off your face and just fucking _ruining_ you. You’re gonna let me, you understand?”

“Yes, I—oh, _fuck,_ Stiles.” He watches with a greedy stare as Derek arches into the hand that’s slipped below the waistband of his boxer briefs, his green eyes rolling back into his head. He’s mouthing something but no sound comes out and Stiles just smirks to himself and moves his lips along to try and help Derek choke out, “I need—ah, _hands_,” before he strips the man of his boxer-briefs so he can see those svelte, agile fingers he loves so much wrapped steady around his cock, tendons morphing under an expanse of tanned skin with every stroke, and Stiles is just _basking_ in the sound of the moans floating from Derek’s perfect lips.

The older’s entire body is tensed, thick eyebrows are knit together, and eyes squeezed shut in an expression of ecstasy with his mouth dropped open in an obscene, silent scream. He can _barely_ breathe save for the whimpers he’s trying to hold in and then it all just _stops._ “What are you…?” Stiles drags his fingers up over Derek’s cheek, brushing the scratchy stubble there softly before he’s tracing the cupid’s bow of his immaculate lips.

“Shut up, Derek,” and he leans down to lick little kisses along the vein running up the underside of Derek’s blushing cock. It’s glistening, slick with Stiles’s spit and laying flush up against the older’s thewy, defined abdomen as the younger teases the head with his tongue. He throws an arm over Derek’s hips in an attempt to mildly restrain him, and Derek’s so fucking close it’s almost painful and he can’t stop muttering obscenities until Stiles pushes three of his slender fingers right past Derek’s lips. “Get them wet for me.”

And Derek obeys with shivers running up and down his body at the rough timbre of the boy’s voice, slender fingers hooking around his lip as he slowly loses control of his hips. Stiles is so gone, and he can’t think right, his body is on fire and it’s so good and Derek tastes so _good_ and he’s nearly drowning in the pleasure building in his stomach. There’s a deep groan that vibrates his fingers and _god, _he’s so _close_ he has to stop.

Derek wants to scream in frustration when Stiles pulls his hands away because he’s itching for a release, and he’s is getting so much enjoyment from letting him beg for it, but really if Derek knew what he’s doing to him—“Fucking Christ, Stiles,” he gasps, voice raspy and deep with arousal, “just fuck me, please, I need it—”

“You _need_ it, do you?” He regains a confidence he almost lost for a moment, and he can see a glimmer in Derek’s eyes of pure desire that causes a lusty grin to form on his lips. He’d never imagined he’d have this kind of control over someone so beautiful, so _powerful_, and here he is, watching it all blossom into bliss. “I know what you _really_ need right now, Derek.”

Stiles meets desperate green eyes while one of his gorgeously long fingers nudges its way between Derek’s spread legs, trailing a slick line to the small pucker quaking with anticipation. Derek bites his lip because Stiles is pushing a finger into him and _whoa_, it feels like all the air has left his lungs with the way the boy is caressing the curve of his hip and gazing right fucking _through_ him and it’s amazing—“Son of a _bitch,_ Stiles,” he groans, hands squabbling for something to grab and he just clutches Stiles’s hair and pulls when he slips in a second finger and starts scissoring Derek open. “More, I need more,” he manages to breathe out, strangled and breathy because oxygen is something he’s being deprived of.

When Stiles shoves in a third finger, Derek yanks the locks tangled in his hands and Stiles bites back a sob, resisting a heavy pressure in his chest to beg for the older to just fucking _do it again._ With Derek’s abs contracting underneath one hand and his velvety heat contracting around the other, it’s making him lightheaded with how much he’s in love with it and it takes every ounce of willpower he has to stop and withdraw his fingers, despite the irritated growl he gets in return.

His heart races when Derek warns, “Stiles,” and when the grip on his hair loosens, a cool bit of air finally reaches his lungs. He mischievously smirks up at Derek, bracing his knees on the mattress and hoisting the older’s calves up around his waist. He watches Derek’s mouth snap open to give another warning, no doubt, and he shuts him up fast, lining himself up and sliding his slick, aching cock into Derek’s quaking body.

The most _pathetic_ moan chokes out of his throat; he’s already wrecked, and Stiles hasn’t even gotten to the best part yet. “Love how you need me,” he whispers where he’s leaned forward to breathe across Derek’s jaw, planting nips and kisses along the stubble there. Derek sighs because it’s so much better than he’d imagined, _so_ much better, and Stiles’s nose is buried in his neck just ghosting breaths over the tepid skin while he rolls his hips forward and elicits a growl in the back of Derek’s throat. “Make more noise, Derek, I want to hear you.”

“You feel so good, please,” he begs, desperate for the blissful euphoria of release, “fuck me.”

And Stiles absolutely does. He works his hips up to a steady rhythm, his long, spidery fingers finding their way along Derek’s toned arms to lock their hands and press the older firmly into the mattress, and Derek’s so fucking _into it_, his vision is splotchy, and he can only really watch Stiles’s muscles move and work underneath the broad shoulders restraining him. Stiles lets his mouth just drop open because he’s panting heavily into Derek’s skin until he finds his lips again and Derek’s nearly eating him alive.

He’s thrusting faster because there’s a boiling in his stomach that’s hot and searing and it’s _insane_ with how good it feels and Derek’s licking at his lips, desperately moaning into his mouth when Stiles angles it just right and catches that sweet spot. “_Fuck_, again.” comes out as a breathy whine against Stiles’s jaw and he’s staring at Derek’s face, knitted eyebrows, eyes squeezed shut tight, and buxom lips parted wide with the pleasure coursing through his frame. He’s struggling against the boy’s restraining hands, and Stiles just shoves them down further into the comforter, steadily fucking into Derek with perfectly measured thrusts.

“Legs up, come on,” Stiles orders, and Derek obeys with a cry of pleasure, chanting a string of obscenities as he stretches his legs higher around the boy’s waist. “So fucking good for me, aren’t you? You’re so tight, I bet you’ve been craving me for a while.”

Derek just whimpers a yes because there’s no use in denying it, and he’d never dream of it with the way Stiles is driving into him with blinding force, it’s making his legs go slack again and he’s so fucking _close_ for the third time that night and he just needs that _release._ “Stiles, I—_shit, again_,” Derek cries, and Stiles hits his prostate again, and again, “Harder, Stiles,” and _again_, and pleasure seizes his whole body and he lets out a sob of euphoria when his orgasm crashes into him like a fucking freight train. Stiles keeps plowing through it relentlessly, swallowing Derek’s moans and milking each rope that splatters over Derek’s chest, all the while using all of his strength to keep his quaking arms _down_.

Stiles can feel it too, he’s on fire, and Derek just clenches around him and he fucking loses it, buried completely, hips flush against Derek’s ass when he spills inside of him, lips lazily finding Derek’s again to just slide their mouths together in a soft, tender kiss that leaves them both breathless. He lets go of Derek’s hands and carefully separates their bodies before he finds his discarded underwear and haphazardly cleans them up, tossing them somewhere in the apartment as he lies next to Derek’s rapidly falling chest.

“I can’t fucking believe you,” Derek chides, gaze trained on the ceiling, “I should’ve suspected something. Four fucking months of planning and studying and you suddenly don’t have time for a recital.”

Stiles turns to lovingly study the older’s sharp, glistening profile. He reaches down and picks up one of his hands, bringing the palm to his chin to kiss. “I’m sorry for lying to you but—"

Derek’s stare shifts to his right and meets the whiskey eyes. “You’re fucking _Mieczysław_, you don’t even need to do a goddamn recital. Maybe it’s good that you lied. Look what happened.”

“I guess I’ve made up for not going with you to the concert. Or I guess meeting with my composer. I figured I should make it worth your while once I realized you actually wanted me.”

Derek’s studying Stiles’s radiant face, his jovial expression behind the palm still pressed to his lips. He could wake up to the way Stiles is gaping at him every single morning for the rest of his life, he thinks, but he really doesn’t know how to tell him that. “What do you mean?” Derek’s sure he’s been discreet, but he’ll admit to sneaking a glance or two every once in a while, although he’s sure he’s never been caught in the act of drooling over Stiles’s ass or imagining the hands that lay hidden beneath those fingerless gloves.

“You didn’t write that _Carmen_ arrangement because you particularly enjoy Bizet, Derek,” he says, rolling over to slip into the space behind the older. He hooks an arm over Derek’s chest and smiles, planting a few kisses on his shoulder for good measure. “_I_, on the other hand, _really_ enjoy Bizet. I have a—uh—a soft spot, if you will, for _Carmen_.”

Stiles hears the surprise in his voice when Derek responds, “I’d never really thought about it.”

The blanket draped over the foot of the bed is tugged up over the both of them and Stiles mutters into Derek’s neck, “Some part of you did.”

“I guess,” he admits. He leans back into Stiles and the boy gratefully tightens his embrace, letting the woodsy pine smell of Derek’s skin swirl around his head and lull him into a blissful sleep somewhere on cloud nine.

———

Stiles stirs the next morning the most rested he’s felt in a long time, body sore and relaxed, mind itching to fill the stillness of the loft with elegant, bewitching melodies that are so dutifully hidden in the crannies of the literature in the living room. He untangles himself from Derek’s limbs to silently pad across the loft where sunshine is brightly streaming in through the wall of windows, highlighting the spiral staircase in the corner, up which he ascends. Stiles yawns through the jittering of his fingers as they channel the hyperactivity bubbling up from his legs, and he finds himself in Derek’s bedroom searching for some sweatpants to throw on.

They’re in the same drawer as the last time he borrowed the older’s clothes, and he tugs out a second pair to bring down to sleeping beauty after putting on some black joggers that he spots underneath his very own flannel and chinos. A smile creeps onto his face at the thought of Derek wearing his flannel—as if it’s going to even _fit_—and Stiles leaves them there in hopes to start a drawer in Derek’s dresser. He nearly runs right into the bookshelf on his way out, his knuckles swinging around to grab something to steady his groggy self, and they discover a score of preludes so old and well-loved that the bound pages are collectively falling out of the hardcover spine. The cover reads Debussy. When he opens the book, it falls immediately to the eighth prelude, and it’s the original version of the copy Stiles was given when he received the benefit concert music, the finale to the program he never played. 

Downstairs, Derek stirs, and Stiles takes it as a cue to rouse him from his slumber. He descends the stairs as quietly as he can, avoiding every one of the squeaky places he’s stumbled upon throughout his visits, and pads back in front of the wall of windows. Derek’s laying in the sunbeam, washed in the golden glow of the morning sun, nearly stealing Stiles’s breath away. How did he get this lucky? He’s so comely as tousled and unkempt as he is, and he can’t stop staring at the delicate rise and fall of his chest, the way the rich, chocolate sheets are bundled and swirled over his chiseled body, and _wow,_ his mouth is parted so slightly, so _beautifully_, a small sigh of contentment falls from Stiles’s smile.

He gently sets the pair of sweats on the foot of the bed and takes the prelude book over to the twinkling piano on the other side of the bookshelves. The bench creaks underneath his weight, but the instrument begins to sing as soon as his fingers play the descending G-flat major and ascending E-flat minor arpeggios of the opening line. It’s no wonder that it’s Derek’s favorite, because the chords so wonderfully liven up in the damp space of the loft, ringing warmly up into the vaulted ceilings.

It doesn’t take very long before Derek is right there, with a hand tracing lightly at the back of his neck. “Tell me what you hear, Derek,” Stiles says, not looking up from the prelude book.

“It’s symbolist, about a girl with golden hair in Scotland,” he replies, “He creates a pastoral setting by blending pentatonic scales with diatonic chords and modal cadences. It has plenty of plagal leading tones and the melody alternates between conjunct and disjunct movement to give it a folk-like tune, more like a Scottish ballad.”

Stiles, already having memorized most, if not all of Debussy’s preludes, finds Derek’s eyes and smiles through the pianissimo drone-like motion and brings out the consecutive fifths when Derek hums in satisfaction at the calming sway of the melody.

“_Le fille aux cheveux de lin _brings a gentle lyricism and warmth uncharacteristic of Debussy at this period in his life, which is why it’s so remarkably emotional and breathtaking,” Derek finishes, and he just listens to Stiles carefully follow the phrasing and take liberties with the written dynamics, and the way the ethereal chords hang in the air once the piece is over nearly steal his breath all over again.

Stiles wraps his fingers around the backs of Derek’s thighs to pull him forward, and he’s pressing soft kisses to the trail above the waistband of his gray sweats, and Derek hugs him back contentedly, and they sit in comfortable silence. His anxiety is returning in the silence, a dark pit forming sickeningly in his stomach, and he’s really hoping that the warmth and comfort of Derek’s skin is going to make it disappear, yet it only worsens when the older whispers, “So, what happens now?” softly above his head.

“I think it’s time for me to come clean,” he responds with his lips still pressed into Derek’s body. “No one knows who I actually am, except five people. I figure it’s about time I start working properly, given I’m a graduate now.”

Derek doesn’t react, and Stiles is too afraid to look up at his face. Isn’t that what he wanted to hear? How does he work in the fact that he wants to wake him up with a different piece of music every single morning for the rest of his life? How does he ease into the fact that he wants to listen to him explain the similarities between what Bach and Ravel over breakfast before he goes to work every day? How can he tell him that he’s been so head-over-heels in love since high school and he really doesn’t want anything more than to just exist in the same space together?

“I mean us,” Derek finally says.

The pit in his stomach disappears. Stiles just smiles and stares up at Derek with joy in his whiskey eyes. “World-renowned Dr. Derek Hale, one of musicology’s best, spotted at the LA Opera’s premiere of The Marriage of Figaro with boyfriend Stiles Stilinski, better known as world-renowned pianist, Mieczysław.”

“Are you asking me on a date?” Derek’s hands slide from Stiles’s hair to his shoulders as the boy stands from the piano bench and captures the older’s mouth in a sweet kiss. “Because The Marriage of Figaro doesn’t open until August.”

“I guess we’ll have to find something to do until then.” Stiles glances back at the rumpled chocolate sheets they’d emerged from and plants another kiss on Derek’s lips, guiding him backward toward the bed. “You _could_ say my name a few more times.” _Maybe pull my hair a little, too,_ he thinks.

Derek melts into it and mumbles against the boy’s lips. “What, Stiles?” He makes a noise of disapproval into the older’s mouth, which Derek only laughs at and replies, “Oh, you mean _Mieczysław_.”

“Yes.” Stiles lets Derek turn them and he’s tumbling onto the mattress this time with a grunt when all 200 pounds of muscle lands on top of him. “I love the way you say it.”

Derek kisses Stiles again and they just revel in each other for a moment before he murmurs, “Make me say it then.”

A grin floats across Stiles’s lips.

And Derek knows then he’s about to be saying it more. A _lot_ more.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I'm a music major and these are some of my favorite piano works, so if you listened to the playlist, I hope you liked them as well. I tried to pair them with what was going on in the story, except from Stiles's brain instead of Derek's, so there's a little more difficult music, a little more angst, a little more uneasiness; I apologize if it made you as anxious as it made me.
> 
> Also, the album cover is another picture I took of one of my friends who plays piano and they still look like Dylan O'Brien's hands, so hence they became the new cover. 
> 
> dylanssourwolf | Tumblr  
  
If you liked this, check out my other stories and feel free to submit a prompt to my Tumblr! Tell your friends, too! All the hits and kind comments are why I'm still writing now that I've graduated college WOOT! Y'all really do keep me motivated and remind me why I love writing, so thank you!


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